When Doves Cry
by StarGazers
Summary: This is WDC 2.0! Clarissa Stonagal's world is unbelievably, undesirably undone when she is thrown, head-long into the plans and malingering of Nicolae Carpathia. Read and review!
1. The Last Rose of Summer

Note: I do NOT own any of the LB material, characters or otherwise. I own Claire and all OCs and that's it. Also, I am doing a COMPLETE overhaul of WDC due to my reflection on Claire as a character. I started writing this when I was younger and Claire's character, now, bothers me as immature and borderline Mary-Sueish. So, I have changed her and some of the relationships in her life to reflect a (hopefully) more mature attitude. She will be different in many aspects, and the same in many. Enjoy!

The Last Rose of Summer

She felt the wind stroke her cheek, the fresh smell of the country air filling her nose and the feel of soft blades of grass against her nape. The area around her was so alive, free and calming. In the distance she heard heavy footsteps running toward her, labored breathing in short huffs drawing ever closer. She rolled onto her stomach and gazed up. A butler from the manor had come for her and he stood, sweaty and gasping, failing to get his words out.

"Your..." breath, "father..." breath, "has sent me to get you!" he heaved the rest out so he had more time to breathe.

She rose up onto her knees, sitting back some and watching him, his face was losing the purple color and began to regain a healthy shade of some peachy color. The poor butler had worked for her family for ages, and even if he wasn't archaic, he wasn't in the best of shape either. He was obviously not fit to run and so she felt bad that she'd strayed so far from home.

"Oh Charlie, why didn't you just yell for me, or for Heaven's sake, take the car?" she had yet to rise fully, instead giving into a stretch of her arms. "Besides, I thought my father was still in New York. What brings him home and why does he want me?

"Miss Clarissa, do call me Charles. You know it isn't proper for you to refer to me otherwise," the man stiffened, then relaxed after peering around for paranoia's sake. "Besides, 'Charlie' makes me sound so young."

"Oh my apologies! Well I won't make the mistake of making you sound young again, rest easy my friend knowing you are totally ancient," they both burst out laughing, only he stopped short with a fit of coughs. "Charlie! You said you went to hospital for that!" she looked sternly at him.

"Charles, please. And I did go to the hospital. They said it was nothing to worry over, but that I shouldn't go running after stubborn, red-headed youths," he smirked at her. "So don't you worry, the Lord Jesus will take care of me."

For the moment, she ignored his Christian sentiment and rose to her feet, her hands immediately going to their hips (which was where they were usually found), "I'm not stubborn. I am _determined _and there _is _a difference!"

"Of course there is, Miss. Now, really, your father wishes to see you. You know your father doesn't like to be kept waiting." Charles turned his back to her and headed back for the estate home.

"Wait! You didn't even tell me what he wanted me for! The man ships me off to boarding school, ignores me more often than not when I'm home but all of sudden wishes to see me? Are we talking about the _same _'father'?"

There was no need to pretend with Charlie that she had any sort of proper relationship with her father, Jonathan Stonagal. A quite late-in-life child for him, he indulged her needs from a distance by funding whatever she so wanted with the stipulation that she be obedient. When she wasn't obedient, he threatened to cut her off and ship her out. So far, only one of those things had happened. The year prior, after joy riding with one of his prized cars, she was potato-sacked to a St. Catholic Something's Alternative Boarding School for Wayward Young Girls. Besides the mandatory, monthly update about her academic and behavioral performance at the school, they hadn't talked since. This seemed to work for the both of them. He could stay in Manhattan, managing his beloved finances and she could maintain the façade that her behavior was under control, while still using her substantial allowance to feed whatever habits she wished to have on the weekends, or breaks. This was a break and he was here, thus her equation equaled out to her break being ruined already.

"He just asked me to come fetch you. Seems he is not _alone._"

Her lips became a thin line before her teeth gnawed along the bottom one, searching for pieces of chapped skin they could peel off. That would be more entertaining than the situation she was about to be led into. Her father being "not alone" did not imply that there was just someone else in the room with him, didn't even connote that Todd-Cothran was in the room with him…It meant the blonde-haired Wonderman was there. Her stomach knotted. She did not like this man, despite knowing him for many years now. Her father had been doing business with him since around the time she was born, but she had really only seen him off and on since she was five. Didn't matter though, she didn't like him.

"Should I decide to run away at this moment, or climb the nearest tree...What do you suppose will happen?" She toed the earth, weighed her options then followed the distant butler.

"I suppose, Miss, you would have to do one of those things to find out. But I can say that you will not be happy with the result."

Seems the scale of options had been weighed for her. Heaving herself along, she followed Charles inside to the study. She kept him from announcing her arrival and watched him leave. Instead of immediately going in, she paced the small distance of the double doors. _A few more moments, _she told herself, _Just a few more moments of myself._

Taking in a deep breath, she gripped the knobs of the doors and hauled them open as dramatically as possible without hitting her face. She released the knobs long enough to sweep her hands up and grip the wooden frames as they passed by. She preferred leaning into space slightly, believing it gave her a more of a disruptive presence at times like these. Tilting her head toward her right shoulder ever so, she smiled broadly at the three wide-eyed faces.

"You rang?"

Her father, the most senior member of the three, was the quickest to change dispositions. His eyes went from wide to narrow and his lips pursed. The color that subtly rose to his face was that of embarrassment and it wasn't until she saw that distinctive shading that she straightened up and shut the door properly behind her.

"I sent for you over ten minutes ago. Where were you?"

She wasn't completely sure her father's voice could be set to any other tone but stern. She shrugged one should and leaned against the door frame, keeping a respectable distance between herself and them.

"Smoking."

"Clarissa!"

"Geeze," she rolled her eyes and huffed, crossing her arms. "I was just relaxing outside."

"Then what took you so long?"

"You sent Charles for me. If you had intended on me being here before now, you should have sent someone who can run," her face cocked back upward in thought, "Or perhaps someone who won't pass out after running."

She heard small snickers from the remaining two, which only fed the fire of her father's frustration.

"You can be rather callous, Clarissa."

Her brow rose, lips smirking, "Oh, don't think me so. Trust me when I say I am far more concerned for Charlie's health than I am your schedule."

She hypothesized the only reason her father sighed and gave up was because Todd-Cothran and the _other _were in the room. Were that not the case, the argument would have continued and ended with a vaporous threat from him. At present, he merely gestured her to sit beside 'the other' and straightened his back. She paused a breath before sauntering over and sitting, as tightly as possible, against the arm of the sofa. It was at this moment that Todd-Cothran stood and headed for the door, leaving the sour taste of irritation in her mouth.

"I'm going to go check on the status of the plane, Jonathan," he nodded his head curtly in their direction, "Good to see you again, Claire."

She shot her hand up in a half-hearted, fluttering arc of her fingers; a lazy-man's good-bye. With no one across from her, she was forced to turn her body and face him and her father. The door clicked closed, signaling Todd-Cothran's departure and her father's introduction as he motioned to the man at the opposite end of the couch. Her eyes slid that way. He was dressed in a dark, crisp suit, accented with a bold, red tie. The tie clashed with his blue eyes. His blonde hair was precisely brushed back.

"Clarissa, you remem-"

"Good afternoon, Mr. Carpathia," she cut her father off.

She (with a nasty penchant for older men) would have found Carpathia rather attractive, if it weren't for the fact that something about him felt so wrong. He felt shadowed by the dangerous and deadly. He's what the girls at her school would call a "dine n' dash" or a "grab n' go". Grab what you want from them, then get out of dodge before you see the skeletons in their closet. That wasn't how Claire operated.

"Good afternoon, Clarissa. You look lovely today," her pitch-perfect ears _did _appreciate his baritone voice, if nothing else.

"Thank you, very much," she wriggled a little, uncomfortable beneath his eyes. She looked back at her father, brushing her bangs from her eyes. "What did you need me for?"

"We have something to discuss."

"Which is?"

"Your summer holiday."

That is when she became more intrigued with the conversation, more tense. She had the awful feeling he was about to step on her domain, infringe on their silent agreement not to corrupt the sacred time of holidays with one another's presence. "What about it?"

"You won't be going to Greece as scheduled. You will be staying here."

"What?! No!" she was off the couch, burned by his suggestion and the glare in both their eyes. Carpathia seemed content to watch the family drama unfold.

Her father did not have the same idea as he side-glanced at his guest with a frown then stood, smoothing his suit and his temper, "Plans change, Clarissa…As do _grades_ and _behavior_."

She felt the prickle of her white-lies in her stomach. "I don't know what you mean."

"You _do!_" he hissed, "I'm not stupid, Clarissa! I can't say the exact same for you, at the moment."

What would have offended normal daughters in that statement simply pinked off her acutely-made shell. Another shrug of the shoulder, "Those classes don't matter and those nuns lie. They have it out for me because we're not practicing Catholics."

"Math and Science don't matter?! I'm not even going to touch the behavior infractions you managed to occur toward the end…Not right now, anyway." Which indicated this conversation was not over, not by a long shot.

She finally looked at Carpathia, wondering how he figured into all of this or if he was remaining for pure pleasure's sake. She then looked back at her father, "So, what do you want me to do about it? Too late to fix this year, I'll just repeat."

Her blasé approach to solving problems in academia only elicited a frustrated sigh from her father. His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, a tell-tale sign he couldn't conceive one minutia of how she was his flesh and blood.

"That is why Mr. Carpathia is here, Clarissa."

She snapped her gaze back to blondey, "I thought you were in politics!"

"Not _here _as in the entire summer, Clarissa! _Here _as in still in the room!"

Carpathia simply chuckled and leaned forward, "Technically the summer would be correct. Mr. Stonagal didn't want to take the time out of our schedule to remain here and assure himself of you attending extra classes, so I extended an offer of tutoring you enough to re-take your final exams and lift your grades."

"Wait…what?" the prickling feeling turned to knots. That silent agreement just went up in a blaze. "I'm on holiday!"

"Not anymore," her father smirked, moving to grab something from his desk. From the looks of it, he held her final report card and a lengthy letter from the Grand Poobah Nun. To Mother Superior, Claire was public enemy number three behind Evelyn "Evie" McCallister (known for her promiscuity, disrespect and uncontrollable foul mouth) and some pregnant girl who smoked behind the cafeteria every day after mandatory Mass.

"You people don't even live here! Go back to Manhattan and do whatever it is you do, but leave me be!"

Her father whirled on her and in a matter of seconds was shoving his finger into her face; jabbing motions to designate the seriousness of the situation. "_You failed your classes!_ So, as long as you are _my _child, I will be wherever I need to, to make sure you don't screw your future up! You will fix these grades or so help me…!"

Carpathia stood and put a calming hand on his mentor's shoulder and somehow, her father's whole demeanor changed and focused its attention on the younger man. Claire just stood, fists clenched at her side and notorious temper bubbling beneath the surface with choice words learned from Evie ready to spew.

"Jonathan," the baritone was firm, yet polite, "We will fix the grades. I have the feeling Claire will be quite…" he looked her way and a chill ran up her spine, "Receptive to my methods."

"Claire isn't going to be receptive to anything!" she finally snapped. "Because _Claire _isn't doing this!"

That said, she whirled and stormed from the room. The resounding boom of the slamming door seemed to cut her, satisfyingly, from the idiotic situation that had just taken place. There was no reason for her to be _tutored _by a politician, nor for said politician or her father to remain in England long enough to see that happen. If they were determined to reform her wayward disposition, she would give their determination a battle worth fighting.

His _methods _were nothing less than barbaric! To spite them both; her father for taking her holidays and Carpathia for assuming her dedication, she failed to show up for her first tutoring session. It wasn't that she had had anything better planned at 10:30 in the morning, it was just than _anything _she did would have been _better _than Statistics at such an hour. So, she ended up wandering off around the property.

When she came back around the middle of the afternoon, hands slid into the back pockets of her jeans, she could never have fathomed what lay in store for her. Moseying up to her room, she opened her door to disaster and despair. Her feet had never moved so fast without a nun whipping behind her. The stairs and hallways blurred as she sought out anyone who might have an explanation. Darting past the study, she saw him sitting on the couch and doubled back to find him working on some sort of paperwork.

"Where's my stuff?!"

He didn't look up at her, nor acknowledge her presence as his fingers flicked a page. The same rage began to boil and her fingers flexed, relaxed, flexed again…

"Where are my things?!" she said again, emphasizing each word with a cold, slow precision.

When he finished reading the new page, his eyes moved up to her face before his head inclined to watch her better. Still, he said nothing for a few seconds as he took the time to set his reading to one side, lean back and cross one ankle over his knee. His face was unreadable, but she got the distinct impression that the rage which boiled inside her stomach, and was evident in her tone, was being masterfully hidden somewhere inside him. Suddenly, a sinister smirk broke out on his lips.

"I took it."

Her eyes widened, face contorting as if he has insulted her mother, "You did what?! You don't have the right to do that! Return those things immediately!"

"Do you know who you're speaking to?" he glanced down at his manicured nails, as if to indicate her request were little more significant than what may lay up underneath them.

She couldn't say anything. She wasn't going to play his stupid game but all she could think to do, instead of revenge, was deep breath herself down to somewhere rational. He ran his thumb over his index nail then looked back up at her. The smirk was back, more sinister, since he had apparently elicited the response he desired from her. Silence.

"I am not your father a-"

"That's for damn sure," she hissed and watched his eyes flicker narrow for an instant.

"And I won't be bullied by your foul behavior and constant bellowing. I told you to be in here at half past ten this morning. I waited, gave you the benefit of the doubt and when you chose to disrespect me….I decided to correct your poor judgment."

"By taking all of my things?!"

"Not all. Just the non-essentials. You will see I left you a desk, your bed and most of your clothes. As well as pencils, paper and whatever else you will need to complete homework assignments."

Deep breathing was no longer working. Her mind was going white and fuzzy over this man's presumptuousness, "You took my clothes?!"

"Just non-essentials, my dear…_non-_essentials. I did not touch any undergarments, nor did any of the staff who helped me."

"You can't do this! Return them at once!" She took a threatening step forward but he remained unmoved. If anything, he seemed amused.

"Actually, you'll find I _can _do this since your father gave me permission to use whatever methods necessary to get you to cooperate. Since taking your trip away did not seem sufficient, I figured the loss of your iPad, flat screen, or laptop would light a fire of inspiration beneath your feet," he dropped his ankle and stood, looming over her. "Fear not, though. I will return your things to you if you comply."

She snarled a little at him, "And if I don't?"

"Then I will give those things away."

Calling his bluff, she straightened, "I can always buy _new _ones."

He laughed, "With whose money? I think you'll find, should you check your purse…I took all the credit cards and cash. I think I left you enough in change to buy a stick of gum, if they even still sell gums in just sticks."

She was at her tipping point and before she did something she would regret, she spun and moved for the door. Her skin prickled with ire and sanguine heat. All she saw, felt, and thought was red.

"Ah, ah, ah…Don't you want to attempt to earn these things back?" his voice taunted behind her.

She paused mid-step and thought about it, long and hard during the pregnant silence. So dependent upon them, she gave herself only a day and a half, max, without her sources of entertainment before she snapped. The idiot that she was, she had left her phone in her purse, which meant even if she had wanted to escape this torment, she couldn't since she hadn't bothered to memorize her friends' numbers.

"…What do I have to do?" she couldn't look at him now, knowing he was victorious in this. When she heard silence, she turned to look back at him and saw him grinning. His finger was pointing to the open Statistics book.


	2. Dream Catcher

Chapter 2: Dream Catcher

Clarissa slept incredibly well that night. Who wouldn't after hours of learning nothing but Math equations and chemical compounds she would never remember. Her head tilted back against the pillow and she let herself slide into dreams, a world she preferred to visit. Escapism. Vivid escapism, really. The nuns often punished her for falling asleep in class. But, if someone had to choose between the boring lecture of Sister Augustine or the Van Gogh-colored inspirations of her mind…wouldn't they always choose the latter? She usually always did, which is why she failed Math in the first place. But, had she known before what she would dream tonight, she would opt for the lecture instead.

She sat under the shade of a cherry blossom tree in bloom. Falling petals slowly draping their beauty all around her. The bright blue sky was splashed pathetic wisps of white. She smiled and closed her eyes. Opening them, they widened with fear. The sky was blood red, the sun and moon raged over who should rule over the heavens. This sent torrents of rushing wind and balls of fire down like rain. The conflagration devoured all from the grass at her feet to the tree and ate up every last beautiful petal. Her pink canopy was burnt and haggard. The winds ripped through the devoured land, leaving it a Tim Burton version of its former self. Nothing could possibly come from this skeleton, this beldam of land. She held her arms and made her way to a boulder.

She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. Cognizant of her own self in her dream, she wondered why she was still here… Why didn't she just wake herself up? She could hardly look peaceful with something like this going on inside her head. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she watched the skies. The moon rammed into the sun, knocking some of it away and sending it crashing to the ground below. The sun retaliated by scorching the very skin of the moon, turning it bright red. The chunks of sun slammed into the ground, and from half of the craters sprang crystal clear water, from the other half oozed thick blood that traveled across the land. Clarissa rubbed her throat and coughed hoarsely, then turned to a gushing spring near her. She walked beneath, cupping her hands into a bowl for the falling water. Not even half of what she had collected slid into her mouth when she spat it to her feet. The water was horribly bitter and burned like hot iron.

She returned to her rock and cried miserably as the screeches from the land below her very feet rang in her ears. They cried out for help and refuge, called for someone to save them and lead them to safety. She looked around, but none had stepped forward. Then she saw it from the corner of her eye. A tiny garden snake slithered up from a hole at the base of her rock and moved in her direction. It seemed so frail to her, and yet she sensed hidden confidence in its slither. It coiled at the base of her feet, rising up get a better look of her. It was so cute to her, a tiny harmless snake that survived. It bent its petite head, asking her to touch it...trust it. She reached out to its lowered head but recoiled when it snapped at her extended fingers. It was no longer the meek looking garden snake that had emerged. A golden colored viper sat in front of her, fangs bared. It no longer gave that safe feeling it once had as it snapped and hissed at her. The land cried out to the serpent, despite its hideous appearance and the snake hissed with pleasure and began to grow, soon being quite bigger than she. Its head towered above her and bore its eyes into her own whilst the tail moved behind her. Without warning, the coils wrapped around her body and slowly squeezed her while lifting her closer to the head.

From below her the ground screamed at the snake, demanding water and nourishment. The snake's head thrashed from side to side and flew down to the ground, outstretched fangs piercing the ground and bringing up a geyser of water. It brought its ugly head back to her, but she watched as the land fought to collect the water. The geyser dried up quickly, only seconds after being born, and the land once more whined for more from the snake; they had not all been satisfied. Instead of giving them another spring of water, the cobra spat some of its fatal venom to the ground and hissed as the land began to gather. They wanted nourishment and they wanted it immediately! The snake turned to the old cherry blossom tree and struck it with its tail; large, healthy buds began to grow and produce fruit, which fell to the earth and were devoured. But these too were gone quite soon after coming into being. The fruit shriveled up and the buds grew weak and died, blowing away with a gush of wind. Once more the land gathered and pleaded to the snake, but it only shed its skin to them and concentrated on her. The head came closer to her, but Clarissa swung at it and screamed. It hissed and threw her to the ground, cursing at her.

She curled into a ball and wept as the snake reared its head, preparing to devour her whole. But the land would have none of it and began to rumble. Soon caves, canyons and mountains formed all around her. _**'Seek refuge within me!'**_ the land called out to her and she obeyed, running into a nearby cave. The snake hissed, eyes covered with dust from the land and ignorant to her sanctuary. It snapped at the caves, thrashed at the canyons and cursed the mountains, but none budged for the snake. Clarissa peered out from her hiding place and watched as the snake lowered its mouth to the ground and cooed to the land, soothing its worries and calming its fears. _**'Give to me what I desire and I will give to you...'**_ she heard it hiss. The land screamed praises as the tree bore fruit once more and the geyser returned to life. The very cave that beckoned her to hide now spat her from its mouth and guzzled down the water. The tail caught her once more and held her against the stone whilst the fangs struck against her body causing her to cry out in pain. One fang struck against her lower abdomen, digging itself in while the other cut up the length of her arm. She cried out to the land for help, but it ignored her pleas and returned to its feasting. Desperate, she cried out to the sky above her, and awoke to her chest heaving and sweat glazing the top of her skin.

The surrealist nightmare left her unable to get back to sleep the rest of the night and to avoid her newly restored phone and iPod from being pilfered, she fought against her fatigue. Breakfast consisted of three more cups of coffee than she was used to, but three more cups that would fail to kick in for another hour. Blinking continuously, she carried herself toward the study with a piece of toast hanging from her mouth. She almost felt too tired to chew. She didn't want to give up her toast to say hello to Nicolae, though, so she started chewing and caught the toast when it fell from her lips. Plopping into the chair, her hand flicked the book open to where they had left off the day before. Even in her sleepish state she found it odd that someone running for a presidential office would set his mornings aside to tutor a fourteen year old.

Claire finished her toast, brushed dark red locks from her face and started on the practice problems he had written in her notebook. Standards of deviation, quartiles and conversion of t-scores blurred in her mind as she grabbed her pencil to write. Today would not be a good day. Ten minutes later, she felt him looking over her shoulder and didn't need to look up at him to tell he was disapproving.

"Is there something wrong?" his fingers drummed the back of her chair, tinking away at her patience.

"No."

"Then why aren't you done and why isn't your work better?"

She groaned and rubbed her face, the universal sign of frustration that he wasn't picking up on. She felt the vibrations and sound from his fingers drumming stop.

"I'm waiting…"

"I'm just tired. I didn't sleep well last night."

"So? Push through it. The sooner you finish, the sooner you can go back to sleep."

"Do you even know what compassion is?" she finally looked up at him.

One brow rose on his face, "Compassion is extended to those in need. You are not in need, you're whining."

She took a deep breath, that old anger rising, "I'm not whining…I'm educating you on my mental state."

He pushed her chin with his finger to rotate her face back to her work, "Educating is _my _job."

Gritting her teeth, she fought biting his finger and got back to work. Five minutes later, she was shoving the notebook at him. He clicked his red pen and went over her problems. Whichever ones she would get wrong, he would have her do five times over. Thankfully, her irritation gave her whatever she had needed to do the problems right. Once more she found herself responding to his covert Pavlovian conditioning.

"See? Not so hard. Now let's move on."

He never taught her for more than a few hours and expected her to learn everything he taught. He was a rigorous teacher, more like the nuns and less like the teachers who engaged both sides of the brain. He didn't even let her listen to music while working. The ticking of the clock, the occasional rushing from the air conditioning…these were her melodies.

The afternoons, though, he took conference calls, Skype sessions and whatever else he needed to in order to maintain his campaign for Romania's Oval Office. Her father had left fairly soon after instilling Nicolae as her tutor, retreating back to Manhattan. Her father being gone was never an issue. She was far more comfortable with him out of the house than she ever was with him in it. Nicolae being here was equally, if not more, unsettling since she really didn't know him from Adam.

The first time she could remember meeting him was when she was five. She had been running down the stairs, fleeing from her nanny when she almost ran into him. He had towered over her then, his blue eyes looking down at her with intrigue. He had scared her, that she remembered. He didn't "scare" her anymore, but there was certainly something about him that she responded to with caution.

He was her father's favorite pass time, since mega billionaires have nothing better to do than make more money and invest in Eastern European political ingénues. And since he was her father's favorite anything, she was obliged to listen to him since she was _not _her father's favorite anything. So, in order to get the things she wanted: her stuff back and for him to be gone, she began to comply a little more. If she was tired, she didn't tell Nicolae. If she was hungry, she excused herself to the restroom then swung by the kitchen for a snack. For those few morning hours, she did was she had to so he would go away.

Her compliance earned her things back, her phone being the last of the things to mystically appear. How he had quelled her friends anger at not returning their phone calls was beyond her. She knew he knew how to charm and chalked it up to that. The most persistent of those calling, however, was her cousin. She had left about ten different types of messages on her phone ranging from the curious to the concerned.

Erin lived between her house and their mutual grandparent's home in Ireland. For the past year and half, she had lived strictly at their grandparent's home due to Claire being shipped off to the Catholic school. Similar to Claire, Erin has lost her parents in a tragic accident…something involving a faulty airplane, or bad weather, or something. Claire's mother, before she died, had taken Erin in. Conflict ensued between Claire's mother and grandparents, resulting in the dual custody. After her mother's death, Erin was less welcome at their home since her father disliked having one young child as it was…two was beyond his capacity, even though it wasn't him lifting a finger to raise either girl anyhow.

Currently, Erin was in Greece with their mutual friends…where she should have been. Erin eagerly pointed this out and when her messages were neither curious nor concerned, they were cruel with pictures of radiant beach sunsets. She also informed Claire that she would be stopping in for a few days, maybe a week, in between Greece and Ireland. Jealous and spiteful, she had refused to reply for the first few days after receiving her phone. Instead, she put her energy into whatever Nicolae was teaching in the hopes he would find her satisfactory enough to head back to Romania and allow her to what remained of her vacation.

She handed her latest assessment to him and sat back, rubbing her wrists, while he graded her paper. There would be no positive reinforcement…no praise for a job well done, just a brisk nod and onto the next subject. Anything missed would be done five times over, or he would tear up the entire assessment and have her do it again. Today seemed different, he seemed on edge about something beyond her comprehension and when she missed two problems, he tossed the paper back at her.

"Are you even learning anything?" he hissed and she blinked in response.

Claire looked down at the paper and shrugged one shoulder, ignoring the insult and what it was doing to her stomach, "I think this is actually a personal best for the first run through."

"A personal best?! After everything I've taught you? Get it together and do it again!" he snapped, yanking the paper back.

"The whole thing or just those two five times each?" she asked innocently enough.

"Are you hearing the words coming from my mouth or are they bouncing off that thick skull of yours?! Do it again!" he shoved another assessment at her.

She just stared at him, her stomach knotting. She was used to being somewhat insulted by her father, but she knew his stemmed from frustrations she caused. Nicolae's were uncalled for and she blinked to keep down unfamiliar tears. That seemed to snap him out of whatever mood he was in.

"I shouldn't ha-"

"I might have to take that kind of crap from my dad, but I don't have to take it from you!" she slammed the sheet of paper against the desk, a nasty smacking sound reverberating around the room.

His eyes widened and he took a step toward her, "I didn't mea-"

She cut him off again by side stepping and moving to the door, "Take your own damn test! I'm out of here!"

"Claire!"

She slammed the door behind her and wiped her eyes. While she normally would have left the house entirely, she didn't want him absconding her possessions again. Once in her room, another slammed door, she flopped into her bean bag chair and reached up behind her for a stuffed tiger. Well worn, the animal was hugged to her chest as sob-less tears traveled down her cheeks. She imagined herself made of tougher substance than those reduced to tears, so the tears were more irritating than relieving.

She listened to her music. Hard, energy-pumping club tunes at first that soon dissolved into contemporary choir pieces. Eclectic was the best was to describe her taste in music. One minute you're listening to Lady Gaga's sexed-up solos and the next, Eric Whitacre is subduing your senses with rich harmonies. She heard knocking at her door, the knob rattling as he tried to make way into her room but she had locked him out. After two songs worth of time, he had given up and either walked away or was still standing there in wait.

She sat there for hours doing nothing but holding her old stuffed animal and listening to music. Her butt was numb from sitting so long and her stomach groaned from missed meals. Once darkness settled over her room, she stood and made her way out of her room. There was no evidence that he had been outside her room besides the sounds from earlier.

Claire closed her door behind her and made her way down the back stairway to the kitchen. It was late and the staff were either gone or asleep. She had no idea where Nicolae was and wanted to make sure he figured she was still in her room. She didn't want his fake apologies. She didn't want to hear his voice. She just wanted a sandwich, some crisps and a grapefruit Izze.

After eating, she tiptoed back toward the study. Relieved at not finding him, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Holding the tiger to her, she turned the small desk lamp on and worked on the blank test she had slammed down hours earlier. Thirty minutes later she headed back up to her room and went to bed, too exhausted to do anything but.

No nightmares that night. However, the incident the night before made her just as slow and she plodded through breakfast, making eye contact with no one. The staff seemed to have found out, as Charlie was more sympathetic than normal. Always kind and loving to her, Charlie and his wife also knew the trouble she was capable of causing and held her accountable for that behavior. This morning, though, he and Rosie coddled a tad more than they had in the past. Not physically, though, since she had a thing about being touched. Rosie had laid out her favorite outfit, her favorite meals had been planned for the day and they seemed reluctant to let her get back to tutoring.

But back she had to go. Hands in her pockets, she escorted herself to the study. She took her time, though, rubbing her socked feet into the carpet a little harder than normal. The hot friction felt good and she imagined each sweep of her food against the carpet meant latent energy to shock Nicolae with if he tried to touch her. She actually ended up shocking herself when grasping the door handle.

He looked up at her immediately and stood, but she simply moved to her part of the room and sat down. The test had been graded. None wrong. She left it where it was though and opened her book. He hadn't moved from standing.

"Clarissa, I wanted to apol-"

"I'm not stupid."

There was a long silence, except for the scratch of her pencil and the ticking of the clock. Her working melodies.

"I know you're not stupid, Claire."

That pushed the wrong button at the wrong time. Straightening her back, she set the pencil down precisely and rotated in her chair to look at him.

"No you don't. You…my father…the nuns. There is zero difference between you people," her eyes narrowed, but she did not raise her voice this time. "I'll repeat: I am not stupid. I'm not. You all just don't have an iota's worth of how I operate. You force your methods onto me and expect me to act like how you want. Well, I'm through doing that. I don't like Math or Science. I never said I couldn't do it, I just don't enjoy it and no method of your teaching will make me change."

He stared at her for what seemed like a long time. She wasn't sure if he was processing what she had said, or processing the manner in which she said them. Claire knew not many people talked back to him. She didn't know this through observation or experience, but the presence he gave off. It was that aspect she was cautious around that, she inferred, made people tarry in opposing him. Then he moved. He moved over to her, grabbed a chair and sat a few feet from her.

"Then how did you do that?" he pointed to the test and her eyes followed.

She shrugged and drew one leg up, "I listened to music."

"That's it?" both brows rose a little.

"Pretty much. That and I took it around one this morning…I think."

Now he seemed genuinely flabbergasted. A hand rose to rub his face and she didn't need any help translating that. Elbow to her knee, she used her hand to cup her face.

"You and dad want me to do better? Then lighten the…just lighten up," she corrected herself.

"You don't make that easy," he responded.

"Yeah, well you don't make it easy for me to make it easy."

He smirked and chuckled once before leaning back into his chair, "Very well. I will try something different if you will try to work with me."

"Agreed."

And so they formed their academic alliance and got through the morning. Now that she had established the fact that she was capable of learning and the ground rules for which that learning took place, things were smooth. The morning went back fast enough and just before the clock struck half past two, she was shutting her Science book. She heard him shuffling papers behind her and, it was soft, a growling sound. He was dissatisfied with something, or irritated. It was hard to tell.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked while leaning against the desk.

"Doing what?"

"Tutoring me. Shouldn't you be back in Romania? I mean, really, how can you be here but also running for office there?"

For the second time that day, he paused to dwell on her words. He sorted some papers into a neat pile, "Since we're still organizing the logistics of this campaign, I can afford to take a few weeks away. I am indebted to your father and since he was distressed over this, but unable to do much about it, I decided to step in."

That was news to her, "Somehow, I find it hard to picture my father distressed about anything concerning me."

"Well, I believe he was more worried about your behavior worsening to the point of another public exposé."

"Of course he was."

"I believe he also abhors the idea of your flunking out of school when you are, as you pointed out, incredibly capable. His frustration lies mostly in your blasé attitude toward things. I offered to tell you academically in exchange for continued support of my campaign."

She knew he had done this for selfish reasons, "Well, you can tell him how well I'm doing and then go back, can't you?"

His brows drew together and she saw how that could have come across as insulting, "I could and while that's partially true, I have a penchant for finishing what I start."

She brushed her bangs out of her hair, "Aren't I finished by now?"

"I don't think you grasp how much you have to learn in such a short time…"

"I remember more than you think I do."

"Could have fooled me," he smirked and she made a face at him, stimulating a laugh.

"Well, all I have to do is retake those exams and my grades will be raised. So, just let me take them and be over with it."

"In a rush to see me gone?"

She didn't really want to answer that since it was pretty obvious. While they could be harmonious and civil for short periods, long term with him would only result in pain for them both, "I'm more of a solitary creature. No offense."

"None taken, I can relate," he straightened and grabbed for his suit coat. "What would this solitary creature say to a lunch out?"

She studied him hard, "You want to spend time with me willingly now?"

"I was never opposed to that in the first place. You were. Besides, I have no meetings or pressing matters and I want to get out of this house as much as you."

She thought it over for a minute or so and finally nodded, "Alright. Let me tell the cook to postpone my favorite lunch."

Going out with him was odd. It wasn't bad, nor necessarily good but somewhere in between. He had a way of attracting people's attention that unnerved her. For someone who spent the majority of her time flying under the radar, having a crowd of people form out of nowhere was sickening. She could tell he was using this outing as a campaign opportunity just as he was using it to get away from the estate. He didn't kiss babies or anything like that, nor did he stop for photographs, but he did shake hands and answer simple questions. She stayed back or to the side, avoiding any sort of physical contact with people if she could help it. The more people that gathered or followed, the more ill she felt and eventually he picked up on her disposition.

Indian food was her general choice for meals out, if she had a vote. She never passed at the prospect for chicken tikka masala, but in the case of the growing numbers, she was willing to have it delivered if it meant evading from the herd.

He tugged her into the restaurant and sat her down, ordering some water immediately. She had never conceived that his face could show concern for anything other than himself, but it did. She recoiled from his grip on her arm and finally realized how heavy she was breathing, how clammy her hands had become.

"What's wrong?" his voice was low as he handed her the water.

"I don't like being touched."

"No one touched you…"

She drank deep of the water. She wanted to lay her head down, "There were too many people…too close."

He didn't seem to understand, "Are you claustrophobic?"

"No. I just told you. I don't like being touched."

"Which I could understand had someone _touched _you, but no one did."

"They could have, though. Gathering people bump into others…" she felt her heart rate come down with each gulp of ice water.

"There weren't that ma…" she stopped himself short, epiphany moment, "I didn't know. I'll try to avoid that from happening again."

She just nodded and finished the last of the water as the hostess came to show them to their private table. Eyes followed them through the restaurant before they disappeared into a secluded room. He pulled her chair out for her and pushed it in as she sat, then ordered more water and some wine. He sat across from her and deliberately moved the menus out of the way.

"Why don't you like to be touched? You didn't seem to care when I pulled you inside."

"I was distracted by the crowd."

"Claire, it wasn't a crowd…Are you afraid of something bad happening?" he sounded like he was conversing with a five year old.

"Don't ask me why…I don't know, I just prefer not being touched. I mean," she exhaled loudly, hating explaining this odd quirk of hers.

"What?" he stopped as the water was set before them. Once the wine bottle was opened, he gave their orders and waited for the server to leave. He liberally poured one glass of wine and set it beside her glass of water. Her served himself a modest amount.

She looked at the glass, then at him. He reached out to scoot it closer to her and she needed no further encouragement. She took a long gulp of the Riesling, smiling when it warmed her stomach. He seem satisfied at her acceptance of his offering and sipped his own.

"Certain people are allowed to touch me. My cousin, for example…she can hug me and whatnot. My grandparents, to a certain extent," her finger followed the rim of her wine glass, "The list is pretty limited."

"I can tell. And you don't know why you dislike being touched?"

"I have theories...reasons," she drank more wine.

"Well, we certainly don't have to talk anymore about it, intriguing as it is, if you'd rather not."

"Not much to not want to talk about. It's simple: I don't like being touched and tend to react, hm…violently when I am."

He just stared at her, eyes intent on their target, "Violently?" Then he started laughing. Not loud, but enough to make his eyes water. "Pardon me," he composed himself, his voice still filled with mirth, "But while you are ornery and stubborn, I find it incredibly difficult to imagine you violent by any means."

"It's true. That's why I get in trouble so much at school. Some girl tries to touch me and I hit her. I think I've bitten someone once or twice. I know I've slapped a nun because she grabbed my face."

That seemed to have him in stitches…composed stitches, but stitches nonetheless. He actually had to use his napkin to dab his eyes dry. She didn't understand what was so funny, regardless of how amusing it had been to be found with her teeth clamped onto an upperclassman's hand.

"Oh you poor darling," he shook his head with one last chuckle. "I shall mind myself then to avoid your reactions."

"Thanks."

They seemed to lose conversation after that, though she picked it back up as she inquired about why he wanted to be president. She knew he had a philanthropic side to him, as well as a success import-export business but asked him about those anyway since the silence meant he just watched her. While not as bad as being touched, being watched made her visibly squirm and she didn't understand what he was searching for when he studied her. Her neckline wasn't low enough to expose any cleavage, nor any piercing too outlandish. She had no tattoos, nor odd freckles…in fact, though a red head by birth, she had no freckles. At least not the stereotypical barrage of them. Eventually, their food came and she indulged in her tomatoey chicken. She was grateful for the food since she had managed to drink two glasses of wine and while she was not tipsy, she felt it coming on

"So, and I don't want this to sound disrespectful, when do you have to be back in Romania?" she scooped some of the sauce onto her rice, mixing it around before popping it into her mouth.

"Actually, I might need to be back sooner than I expected."

She perked up at this, the prospect of having her home to herself too good to let go of, "Oh? How much sooner?"

"In two weeks or so. And I'm glad you asked me that again," he left that hanging with a mouthful of Vindaloo.

"Are you? Why?"

"Because you'll be coming with me."

And she dropped her spoon.


	3. Blown Away

A/N: Simple pronunciation guide- Genasha is pronounced "jeh-naw-shuh" and is inspired by a stuffed animal my sister has had for her entire life. :D

Chapter 3: Blown Away

Her face snuggled into the well-worn fur of the stuffed tiger she had brought with her. Mosby hummed beneath her with the sound of a long-gone heartbeat. Somehow, she had developed and impossibility to sleep without him and almost leaving him behind had pushed back their departure by half an hour. Now, at roughly half past seven in the morning, she was curled upon one of the private jetliner's couches. They were by no means as comfortable as those used in homes, but they would do for the sleep-deprived and cranky. Claire was both. Her rage about the situation had prevented her from falling asleep; her head alight with pictures of apt revenge on both parties.

* * *

Despite her best efforts to maintain her temper, she had somewhat exploded at the restaurant. Her only saving grace was that their private room had been removed enough from the general population, bustling with noise, to prevent anyone of importance hearing her outburst. That didn't discount the person of importance _within _the room that she had yelled at. The gentle and understanding disposition Nicolae displayed upon arrival seemed to evaporate once her body rose out of her chair. He would have _no _temper tantrums or flight risks.

Seizing her arm, he had forced her back into her chair and made it quite plain, quite immediately, that she would calm herself or receive the consequences of failing to do so. His voice hadn't raised, nor had his grip been crushing…firm enough to get his point across. What it had been, though, was a decent window into what lay right beneath the composed exterior Nicolae presented to the rest of the world. Now she knew he had a temper and that temper had as many shades as there were shades of grey.

When they had returned to the estate, she saw another shade darker of his temper as he led her up to her room. Shoving her back against her door, he thrust his finger into her face while emphasizing each word that came out of his mouth with deadly precision.

"You will never disrespect me again! Do you hear me?"

Even the well-hewn armor she had developed for her father's temper cracked in reaction to this virgin territory temper. It had been some time since her eyes got _that _wide. She simply nodded. His finger jabbed at her room behind the door, behind her back.

"You will pack your things when I tell you. You will _not _argue with me. Do you hear me yet again?"

She nodded again, fear and resentment mingling in her stomach. His eyes narrowed a touch. He wanted an audible answer this time.

"Yes, I hear you."

"Yes _what_?"

Her hands balled at her sides. The same temper from the restaurant was threatening to rear its ugly head. "Yes _sir_," her voice was terse.

"Good girl. Now, go in your room and write me a…" he paused in thought, "two page letter. The first part should be an apology about your behavior at the restaurant. The apology should include why what you did was wrong, what you _should have rather_ done, and what you will do for me to make up for the disrespect. For the second part of the letter, I would like you to research education resources within Cluj and how you would be benefitted by visiting those resources. I would like the letter by 8 this evening. You won't have dinner until I get the letter." He turned and walked toward the stairs. Once more he paused, on his way down and looked over at her with a cruel smirk, "Oh, and make sure your letter is handwritten and free of grammatical errors."

She had glared at him on his way down the stairs and spent the next few hours composing the letter with great difficulty. Having always been allowed to use her computer to write papers and such for school, Clarissa had been able to cover up one of her greatest weaknesses. Writing. Lying somewhere within the spectrum of Dysgraphia, Claire had _never _been good at writing things unless she could type them. Since most of the tests she had taken in school where the "Bubble In This Letter" variety, with a fill-in-the-blank scattered here or there, her grades had been less affected by her inability and more so by her apathy toward learning.

After typing the letter up on her laptop first then painstakingly copying each letter to a piece of loose leaf paper, she had finished the letter with some ten minutes to spare. She could have cared less about the letter grammar wise. She had presented the letter to him at exactly one minute to eight then waited the five minutes it took him to read the letter. More than once she had watched his eyes roll at the apparent insincerity saturating both her apology and future learning endeavors. He hadn't, however, refused her dinner. What he did do, though, was make sure dinner was less appealing than the lunch she had soured.

A week later, after another temper eruption (since her age refused to accept they were tantrums), she spent hours packing for their trip. A week after that incident, they departed for Romania at the butt-crack of dawn. Sleeping soundly and distracted by the thump-thump-thump Mosby sang, Claire hadn't heard anyone knocking on her door at a quarter past four in the morning. She had only just fallen asleep three hours before that! Still, not one to be late, Nicolae had swindled his way into her room and shook her awake. Not too gently either.

So sleepy, she hadn't been sure if she whined or cried tears when he woke her up. All she knew was that he gave her a peculiar look before tearing the blankets off her body. Twice she fell back asleep…once in the shower and once while brushing her teeth. Irritated at her slothful pace and eager to get into the air, he didn't fight when she came downstairs in pajama pants and a tank-top. He told her breakfast would be served on the plane, but thrust a travel mug of coffee into her hands. Halfway to the estate gates, she came awake with the realization she had left Mosby behind.

* * *

So, after obtaining her tiger and a pillow, they left for the airport where one of her father's private planes waited for them. She had only had to stay awake long enough for them to get to an appropriate altitude and then she was curled on the couch. Nicolae seemed relieved to not have to deal with her for however long she slept and attended to his own business. Once seven thirty rolled around, however, he behooved it upon himself to wake her. Again with a shake. More gentle this time. This time she whined, feeling his hand transition from shaking her shoulder to rubbing her back. From force to encouragement. The circular motions were not necessarily a perfect way to rouse her, but being touched was and she became more alert.

She shifted her face from Mosby and blinked her eyes open, her body too exhausted to want to get up for anything…including food. And she could smell food, good food too. Her sight became more focused, somewhat hazy from sleep and no contacts. She trained on his face as he leaned over her, his body half sitting on the space her body didn't take up on the couch. Now that she was awake, he removed his hand and motioned over to the table where his things were neatly organized, his laptop humming with work.

"Breakfast."

"Mmmph," was the only response she could offer as her eyes slid closed. She heard him chuckle, low and deep, in his throat and felt his hands move beneath her to pull her upper body from the couch. She was dead, tense weight for seconds, uncomfortable with the fact that his touch seemed to inspire less revulsion than others. It ought to inspire more…much more. Sleep was clearly making her vulnerable. Her eyes opened wide and she moved her legs to signal she was up. He released her and moved the few feet to the table. She followed and slid into one of the chairs, swiveling it to face the table before drawing her knees up to her chest.

He seemed either confused or disapproving of her posture, especially when she moved a plate onto her knees, "Can't you sit more like…more like a lady?"

She was too tired to care about looking like a proper lady. She didn't even care when she was more awake. She didn't care when she was with her father, and she wouldn't care while she was with him. _I do not like green eggs and ham, I do not like them Sam I Am_, she thought with a small smile, "I am _capable_, yes, but this is more comfortable. Besides, I'm just going to go back to sleep when I'm done."

Her answer came out slow, a yawn thrown somewhere in there. His brows drew together, a little crinkle forming between them to pronounce his dislike, "I won't care that your knees are drawn up, but don't put a plate of food on them. If that spills, it will be everywhere and I won't have it getting on my documents. I won't have laziness disrupting my work or flat-out ruining it. Put the plate on the table, please."

Oh, he was already ready for a war. She wasn't. She was tired and the aromas now made her hungry. Compliant, for now, she set the plate on the table and turned her chair a little to eat. His finger clicked a button and turned the television on, but not on anything she found enjoyable. CNN…politics and babble she didn't care to understand. _I do not like them, Sam I Am,_ she thought as she cut into her pancakes with a fork. They were warm and soaked in butter and syrup. Tasting them made some fatigue go away.

Though the clack-clack-clacking of his fingers meant he was working, she could feel his gaze alternating between the television, laptop screen and her. She finished sooner than she anticipated, ending the meal with a slow drink of grapefruit juice while he watched her. From her periphery, his expression was satisfied but a brow was raised. Only a second, though and then it settled back down as she set her cup on her empty plate. Before she had turned to face him, a flight attendant cleared her plates away.

"Feel better?" he asked, typing away.

"Yes…I'm going back to sleep though," her knees unfurled and she began to stand.

At that moment, they hit a rough patch of air and she felt herself destabilize. She fell forward, grabbing the edge of the table to right herself but the table wasn't sturdy enough for that. Tables made for airplanes hardly were. Papers went sliding, she went falling and his hands came out to draw her up and forward. One arm curled around her waist and in a second, dragged her sloppily onto his lap as his other hand slammed onto the scattering papers. A sound of irritation rumbled in his chest but she wasn't sure if he was irritated at her or the bumpy flight.

The turbulence continued for another minute. In the meantime, she both gripped his shoulder and the arm looping her waist without noticing her own heaving and erratic heartbeat. She flew well, but when things got bumpy she seemed to come apart. She was more than sure everyone was like that, except for the man whose lap she was on. His arm tightened around her and she heard him ask her to calm down…or remove her nails from his shoulder. She wasn't completely sure until he pinched her side and she snapped her attention to his face. He was grimacing toward his shoulder and she yanked her hand back. No damage done, just uncomfortable.

"You're okay, Claire…you're safe," he crooned, his grip also relaxing and drawing back so his hand rested on her hip.

"I…sorry," she got off his lap quickly, feeling her cheeks burn. Papers were settled on the floor around the table and she bent to pick them up. He was beside her, brushing her hands away from inevitably disorganizing his things.

"No need, I'll do this. Just sit down on the couch and try to relax. We still have about an hour and a half," his voice lacked the irritation she had heard. Still shaken, she did as he suggested and plopped onto the couch. Mosby was against her chest in an instant, the rhythmic thumping easing her anxiety.

After fixing the chaos of his papers, he turned back to her and zoned in on the stuffed tiger. Another chuckle and he was kneeling in front of her, somewhat between her legs. He reached out and poked Mosby before looking at her face.

"You've had this thing forever…aren't you a little old for stuffed animals?" his face looked both humored and concerned, judgmentally so.

"Mosby is different."

"Apparently…Where is Genasha?" he was speaking of Mosby's vigilant and loyal companion.

"Tucked away in my bag."

His eyes widened a bit and she knew he had expected her to say she had left her at home. His shoulders sagged the slightest bit and he looked back at the tiger, "You shouldn't need these things to calm you down anymore…You're almost fifteen years old."

"I don't need them to calm down, I need them to sleep. Well…I need Mosby to sleep, Genasha is more supplementary," she couldn't believe she was discussing her stuffed animals with him. He couldn't believe he cared enough to bring them up.

Now he looked legitimately concerned, as if she had just told him she took three times the prescribed dosage of sleeping pills, "Now that's just ridiculous, Claire. It's been eleven years…I think it's time you moved on."

"What's it matter to you? They're not _your _stuffed animals. They're _mine_."

"Yes, well I bought you Genasha all those years ago to help you adjust. Isn't it time to move onto other things? Things more age appropriate?"

She had forgotten, mostly through desire to do so, that Nicolae had bought her Genasha. Genasha was a pastel colored lamb, bought somewhere in Romania and given to Claire shortly after her mother's untimely death in a car accident. Mosby she had had since she was a baby, a gift from her older brother Matthew as a means to help her sleep through the night. He was filled with a sound card of her mother's heartbeat and a ticker that moved to the sound of that heartbeat. He even had a tiny heater component so he got appropriately warm. Six months after her mother had died, either she had gone to Romania with her father or Nicolae had come to them. Either way, Mosby was granted a sibling in Genasha and she was given one more self-soothing tool to help her sleep at night. She loved them both and the attachment was too strong to abandon now.

Her brow rose and she hugged Mosby tighter, "So, you're suggesting I find a string of boys to help me with my anxiety? That seems age appropriate."

"Did I say that?" he asked coolly.

"You were very vague about what you meant. I took it as I heard it, my apologies if I interpreted wrong," she glanced around the room, mentally adding one point to her side of the score board.

"Maybe a companion of flesh and blood would not be a bad thing for you," he said, quiet and more to himself.

"I could find a Romanian boyfriend. I didn't put that in my list of things to do educationally in Cluj," she smirked, devious now and fully awake, "Mind if I add it?"

His deadpan look was entirely amusing, "Absolutely not."

* * *

Forty-five minutes before they were scheduled to land, she changed from her pajama outfit and into something "appropriate for the situation". His words, not hers and she still wasn't completely sure what that meant. Apparently, it meant that there was an outfit hanging in the restroom for her to change into. He was learning…and learning not to trust her when it came to dressing herself. For all the money and access to haute couture she had, Claire dressed like any other teenager. She liked H&M, Banana Republic and the occasional White House/Black Market outfit. Nothing too fancy unless she was going for a night on the town. Before she unzipped the bag containing her outfit, she rolled her red hair into large curlers that had been set to heat fifteen minutes before she had been told to dress.

What had been chosen for her was so out of her ballpark of attire, she almost preferred to descend from the plane completely naked. The outfit was not ugly, just not up her alley with its two-piece peplum design that made her think of pictures of the late Queen Katherine when she had been younger. The pencil skirt was dark blue with a matching top…short sleeves ending in lace overlays. The neckline was on the conservative side, dipping low enough to be flattering without revealing too much of what Claire had been amply blessed with.

Her favorite part of the outfit was the new high heels. Jimmy Choos sat ready to be worn. She slid herself into the outfit, mindful of her head full of curlers. She fixed her hair back, red waves complemented by the jewel toned blue. Her feet in the shoes and she was out of the bathroom in time to take her seat for descent. A touch of make-up and she was receiving quite the approval from Nicolae.

* * *

The outfit made more sense when compared to the flurry of activities she was jettisoned into once her feet stepped off the plane's stairs. Hyena photographers of all nations descended on them like carrion left behind by lions. The constant flashes unnerved her, but not her companion who kept her tight against his side from the moment he offered her his arm. The press ate it up. She could see a limo about twenty feet behind the paparazzi and felt subtle relief as Nicolae moved for it. He didn't pause for questions until they were close enough for a footman to open the door for her. She was turned to face the cameras again and smiled professionally, not genuinely.

He answered in many languages, which astonished her. And in English, she heard him explain who she was and why she was here. He lied. He explained that she was here to help with his campaign. He painted her as her father's ambassador…an extension of his influential arm that both adored and support Nicolae in his plans. Everything about her being a deviant joyrider and academic failure with a tendency toward temperamental explosions was swept under the rug with a few false words. She was now a properly composed young woman with a skillful mind for politics…a British, teenage endorsement to a Romanian businessman's aspirations to better his country.

He finished answering questions and, as if they had practiced for hours, he and she shared a smile at one another. So many flashes of light in that one second, enough to make her dazed for hours. He helped her into the limo before sliding in beside her. She felt the limo pull away, but that didn't stop the cameras from snapping their pictures. She closed her eyes hard for several seconds until the residual flashes went away.

"You get used to it," she heard him say beside her.

"I'd rather not. I think I'm going to have a headache later," she opened her eyes and leaned back into the seat. He offered her a glass of water, which she took and sipped from occasionally.

"Well, we have a few places to stop before we go to my home. So, try to bare with it because they will probably be following the schedule I have," he smirked at her.

"Oh goody."

He shook his head with that same smirk then reached out suddenly to brush a strand of red hair behind her ear. His fingers stayed there as he studied her face, "You may not like it, but this look suits you."

She was tense again and shrugged as a means to get his hand to move, "What look? The peplum dress or being on the arm of a businessman?"

He laughed and returned his hand to his knee, "Somewhat of both, though I would say you're suited for being on the arm of a man with power. You look very nice…beautiful, really." He looked her up and down again, slowly.

"Thanks, I suppose. Though, I have no real interest in power or whose arm I am on. I don't like being touched, remember?" now it was her turn to smirk, but he was unscathed.

"That, I believe, is temporary. Perhaps all you need is the right person to do the touching."

The both seemed to pause. Both heads seem to tilt at how inappropriate that sounded. All she could do was laugh as he sighed, irritated once more, "That isn't what I meant and you know it!"

"But it's all the more reason for me to find a boyfriend in Romania. Add it to the list of things for me to do."

"No," his irritation was growing. This kind of humor was mysteriously lost upon him.

"Then I shall flirt shamelessly with every handsome young man I come across."

"Then I will be forced to lock you away in your room."

* * *

The spurt of activities was just that for her…a brief spurt that died once she was brought to his estate. This place was a vaporous memory in the back of her head. She wasn't entirely sure she had ever visited this place, but some things felt familiar like the color of his home and the entryway. Something else was annoyingly familiar and that was the straight-laced, bluish haired woman that greeted them with a wide smile. She gave Nicolae a hug, which he seemed subtly begrudged to return. There was no hug for Claire and a spark of memory told her why. Viv Ivans and she _did not _like each other and the fact that she was here only proved there was a détente in place.

Viv patted the sides of Claire's arms and studied her the same way Nicolae had in the limo. She, too, was searching for something to disapprove of but came up with nothing and offered a tense smile.

"My, my…you've certainly grown up to be a lovely young lady," Viv took a step back.

"Thank you. You look quite well, yourself, Ms. Ivins," Claire had no good schema for talking to this woman.

"Nicolae said you were here because of," she glanced back at Nicolae, who was halfway down the hall, "_academic_ reasons. Not still getting into trouble are we?"

Claire disliked her implication toward her behavior and offered only a simple shrug in response, "I try my best."

"I see. Well, let me show you to your room," she spun on her heel and led them in the opposite direction of where Nicolae had gone. They moved through some rooms Claire barely remembered, if at all, and then up the stairs. "Now, Nicolae sent me the schedule planned for you. You will understand that he is too busy to focus on your needs at this time, so I have decided to keep watch over you myself."

"I see. Well, thank you very much," Claire knew Viv hadn't _decided_ anything. Rather, she got the impression Nicolae had designated Viv as her primary caretaker and Viv did not appreciate that.

Viv turned to look at her. The woman was shorter than her, even when both of them were in heels, so she had to look up a little. Some surprise was hinted in her expression, but not enough to be taken aback by Claire's appreciation, small though it was, "Think nothing of it. We are indebted to your father's continued support and know that one thing off his mind is many things of Nicolae's."

She had never quite thought of things that way, but didn't correct Viv. She just continued to follow her until they came to a guest room she had been assigned. Viv led her inside and they were soon joined by a mystery butler, carrying her things in his arms. He remained long enough to deposit the bags then leave. Viv walked around the room, her hand making a swift motion to smooth a wrinkle out of the comforter.

"I will not be as gentle as Nicolae may have been. There will be little negotiation with what I require of you, Clarissa," her voice had taken an overly authoritarian stance and Claire could feel herself resisting already.

"Pardon me?" was all she could muster without being disrespectful.

"I know why you are really here and I am making sure you understand that your previous behavior _will not_ be tolerated here. You will do what you are asked, when you are asked to do it…no exceptions," now Claire heard the resemblance between Viv and Nicolae. Dictators at heart, both of them.

"I don't know what you've heard, but I can guarantee to try my best."

Viv turned to look at her, her eyes narrowed and lips pursed as she muddled over Claire's intentions, "I highly encourage you to do better than your best, since your best has proven poor in the past."

Now Claire was just insulted, but still tried hard to maintain her composure. She replied that she would agree to do better and watched Viv leave her room. At the door, Viv pointed to a desk, already stacked with work and told her to get started. With two hours to work before lunch, Claire was left with Viv's expectations. Kicking off her shoes and removing the outfit, Claire changed into jeans and a simple shirt. She also dug Mosby and Genasha out. Hugging them to her, she had never felt so unwelcome and unwanted before in her life.

* * *

Working under Viv's hawk-like mannerisms was torture. Where Nicolae had allowed her use of her computer, Viv forced her to use her hands. Work took hours and ended in frustration, sometimes lonely tears. Viv seemed to take delight in the fact that Claire struggled with writing. Too proud, Claire refused to tell Carpathia how miserable she was and she knew Viv was lying because Viv didn't want to get in trouble. When they went out, Claire was forced into outfits similar to one she arrived in but by the fifth day, the paparazzi was bored with her. Only local newspapers seemed to maintain any interest and she was just fine with that.

She was taken only to placed which benefitted her education. She enjoyed few of them, though Bánffy Castle offered enjoyment in that Claire was always partial to the Fine Arts. That was, she supposed, the first time during the trip she enjoyed herself and the first mistake she made. Her schedule was rigidly set and while the National Museum of Art was given two hours of her time, she turned it into three and half by wandering away from Viv. Engrossed with the variety of artwork, and the Museum's policy of silent cell phones, meant she didn't see Viv again until a guard was escorting her to the entrance.

Her first mistake landed her in a screaming match with the older woman. Old school that Viv was, she had actually hit a ruler over her knuckles like the nuns had. She squawked that they were late meeting Nicolae for lunch. Nervous, Viv tossed the blame onto Claire. Angry, Nicolae removed privileges. Resentful, Claire distanced herself further from them.

The only person keeping her from being completely robotic was, oddly, Mr. Fortunato. Chubby and pandering, he was nice enough to Claire but never saw her enough to be a consistent, bolstering presence between the two evils. He did, however, always ask how she was doing and if she needed any help. Observant, he noticed her building apathy and distant and promoted himself to interventionist.

He came up to the table she was working at one day, concern in his eyes, "Are you well Ms. Stonagal?"

Claire lifted her gaze then looked around for sign of Carpathia or Ivins, "I'm well enough, but I should focus on working before something else happens."

"I'm concerned you're not entirely happy here. I know Mr. Carpathia fears the same."

Her frustration was mounting, rolling into larger and larger waves that crashed against her resolve. Instead of becoming angry, though, her frustration seemed to reduce her to tears in this house. She would not cry in front of a practical stranger.

"Forgive me if I come across as rude, but I don't think Mr. Carpathia gives two cents about whether or not I'm enjoying myself," her eyes must have been watering because his eyes went wide when she looked at him.

"I can tell you that's not true. He asks me often to check up on you."

Her resolve cracked a bit more. So, he was only talking to her because he was told to. She took a deep breath in and picked up her pencil to continue writing. Very slow and methodical, she concentrated hard on the word "presidential" because there were so many opportunities for letters to go horribly wrong. In the end, both of the 'e's ended up backward. Mr. Fortunato had moved closer, rather than leave, and was staring at her paper. She was gripping the pencil so hard her hand and wrist.

"Claire, do you have trouble with-"

"I need to use the restroom," she cut him off and rose. She moved so fast from the room. Once in the bathroom she locked the door and leaned over the sink, not sure of what to do with herself. Her mind was spinning, her hand hurt and now someone knew her nasty little disability. Perfect. Her hand snaked around the sink handles and twisted, letting the water flow freely. The water swirled about the sink before disappearing into the pipes below. Oh, how she wished she could disappear so easily; just slip away. She wanted her freedom it wouldn't come for some time. Unless she did something about it.

Anxiety knotted her stomach and she pushed from the sink to vomit into the toilet. Her body was wracked with horrible waves of nausea, retching noises escaping her mouth as she emptied her stomach until all she could do was dry heave. She sank to her bottom and sat for many minutes, hugging her knees until the nausea passed. Standing, she shoved handfuls of water into her mouth and spat them back out. Only then did she hear someone knocking on the door.

* * *

Even after acknowledging the maid who was checking on her, she remained in the bathroom for another five minutes. The sour smell had dissipated by then and she could finally move without feeling sick or anxious. Slowly, carefully, she made her way back to where she had been working. She paused a few feet from the entrance and leaned against the wall, her stomach giving a painful lurch as she listened to the voices inside. Oh great…

She could hear Fortunato explaining what he had witness. She could hear Nicolae snapping at someone else and she could hear the feminine voice of that someone else try and explain herself. No one had known she had this problem, so she hadn't blamed Viv or Nicolae or anyone else for assuming she was lazy. Her father and the nuns thought so, which is why she was never tested. And even if she had been, her father would _never _put her in Special Education classes or remedial rooms for help. The same was happening now. Nicolae was speaking, accusing in low tones that Viv should have told him about this, should have helped more instead of ordering her around.

The hypocrisy was too much for her and she ended up sneaking away, in her socked feet, up the stairs to her room. She didn't lock the door, but she did curl up with Mosby and Genasha and fell asleep.

* * *

Someone must have come in to check on her because the door was halfway open when she looked around after waking up. The sun was setting somewhere on the horizon, painting her room with fiery reds and oranges. The house was quiet. So quiet that she could hear the upstairs grandfather clock ticking…its pendulum swinging. She was groggy but at least her stomach was less twisted in knots than when she had fallen asleep. She hadn't even been _that _tired, but she knew the mesh of anxiety and nausea had zapped her energy pretty good.

She moseyed into her adjoining bathroom and washed her face twice. Once with hot water and soap to clean herself and once more with cold water to splash herself awake. Wanting to delay the inevitable reunion, she made her bed back up and straightened the room. Satisfied, she headed downstairs. She stopped at the base of the staircase and listened, again only hearing the sound of a distant tocking clock. Uneasiness crept up into her chest as she moved from room to darkening room.

She found no one, aside from the occasional staff worker, in the rooms she was allowed to enter. The hallway containing Nicolae's office was off-limits, since Viv hadn't wanted her to be a distraction more than she already was. There was a light on in one of the rooms at the very end of the hallway. She knew that room was his office and her body fidgeted before she started down the corridor.

The nearer she drew, she could see the door was ajar. She didn't hear voices, only the scratching of a pen or the typing of keys. Claire remained paused outside of the door, her mind abuzz with alternate options to what she was about to do. She could just go back upstairs…wait for whomever checked on her earlier to check on her again. She could try and finish the work she had started before fleeing up the stairs. Her planning paused…she hadn't actually seen her work when she wandered through the sitting room. Someone had removed it. She licked the inside of her teeth…there went that idea.

Knowing she couldn't leave the house, she settled for knocking on the door but as she lifted her knuckles to the wood, the door swung inward. He peered down at her, amused and confused by her presence. She wondered if he would reprimand her for coming down to his office. Nicolae said nothing, but stepped aside and swept his arm in the universal gesture of welcoming. Drawn in, she stepped over the threshold and made her way to the center of the room.

It was large for an office…larger than her father's. Or maybe the fact that it wasn't as cluttered with large and ornate furniture made it seem more expansive. Either way there was plenty of space between she and he. Her hands disappeared into the back pockets of her jeans as she looked back at him.

"I came downstairs but couldn't find anyone."

"They went out," he strolled back to his chair.

"Oh…okay. Is there something I should be doing then?"

She heard the creak of his chair, rocking back and forth. Was he angry? Maybe he was going to send her back home. She could only hope while watching him. His eyes were staring at the computer screen, disinterested in her presence. His eyebrows drew together. Someone must be messaging him something or whatever he was reading was of immense interest. He glanced up at her then back down at the screen.

"Why didn't you tell anyone you struggle with writing?"

"Do you tell people what _you _struggle with?" she toed the edge of the Persian rug before moving over to his desk. "It's embarrassing…fourteen, almost fifteen, and I still write letters backwards or upside down."

"How can we help you if you don't tell us you struggle?" he motioned for her to sit and she had the oddest feeling of being in the Mother Superior's office as she took her chair.

"No offense, but my academic or mental welfare isn't top priority here. Don't need to give you people one more thing to use against me."

He leaned back, displeasure washing over his features. Finally, he slackened and pushed back from his desk to stand, "You're not happy here."

"Nope. But then again, I wasn't happy about coming here in the first place."

"That was your own fault for failing. But that is neither here nor there at this point," he exhaled, massaging the bridge of his nose in a similar fashion to her father when she frustrated him to the point of possible disownment. Nicolae didn't have the privilege of disowning her. His choices were limited and she hoped he would choose right.

"Look, I get it that you were trying to entertain me and educate me with one fell swoop, but Viv-"

"Ms. Ivins," he corrected.

"Whatever…Ms. Ivins is an awful teacher. She has no patience, she's ten times bossier than you and she takes every opportunity to cut me down. I hate it here, but not because of anything you did…it's because of _her_."

She watched him absorb her words and close his eyes to process the message. Maybe, just maybe, she could tolerate remaining there if it meant Viv was no longer part of the academic equation. She had just made a chess move he hadn't expected. Perhaps he assumed Viv's stricter means would continue to corner her toward better behavior but that had backfired with rolls of nausea. She vexed him. She knew he couldn't break away to give her the type of attention he had while in England but he wasn't willing to risk losing any sort of support from her father either.

"Let's grab something to eat," he answered unexpectedly. He glanced down at his wrist watch and moved his head from side to side, mental math bubbling in his brain. "Can you dress in something more appropriate and be back downstairs in fifteen?"

Seems she wasn't the only chess master in the room. She nodded and stood, "Sure."

"Good. I had someone get you a new dress. I would appreciate you wearing that. I set it inside your wardrobe while you slept. Hurry now."

With that, he waved her out. Intrigued, she moved upstairs to change. The dress he had chosen was a beautiful, but uncomplicated Elie Saab dress of royal purple. Another new pair of expensive shoes. With fifteen minutes, she had just enough time to dress and brush her hair back into an elegant twist. She waited for him at the door, using a mirror to touch up a rushed make-up job that didn't look half bad. He didn't say much before leading her out to a waiting car.

* * *

She was surprised by his choice in restaurants. Posh but fairly crowded with tapas style selections instead of the traditional. He still preferred privacy to mingling and apologized in his own way for what she had endured by filling her with expensive drinks and food. It was an odd atmosphere of relaxation and residual tension. The opening of a dance floor seemed to break the rigidity and somehow, they both ended up laughing. Her belly was warm with fine liquor and spicy food by the time they left.

He kept them out only little longer…long enough to swing by a pastry store. Claire felt loose…her body seemed detached and she knew a sloppy smile tugged her lips up. She wasn't drunk, just that fine, happy line between drunk and tipsy. She felt his weight return to her side and a small, pink contained was set on her lap. She didn't quite hear him when he told her what it was…chocolate cake, cheesecake or some marvelous hybrid of the two. His means of apologizing were going to get her in trouble if she wasn't careful. He clearly didn't care as yet another drink was urged into her hand. It was a beautiful blue color and all she could wonder what was kind of in-limo bar he had to make such drinks.

"Mmmm…I think I've had too many already," her voice seemed miles away, but not slurred. Thank goodness.

"Then this will be the last," he was smiling, coaxing her hand upward.

"Should you even be giving me this?" the drink was such a pretty shade of blue and the glass felt so heavy in her hand, all full of pretty blue.

"I wanted to make you feel better. You _do _feel better, don't you?" the coaxing continued until his fingers trailed away from her hand and down her wrist, down her arm.

"Yes," she responded obediently and tipped the glass back. Her eyes slid closed as she drank the sweet, blue liquor. It tasted sweet…peach and lime curled up in blue.

There was something else in the drink, but she couldn't place it in a million years. A hot, fuzzy sensation that moved from her tongue, down her throat to the pit of her stomach. She was warm and didn't want to open her eyes. She felt herself being moved...the glass taken from her hand. She was laying her head against someone's lap. Her eyelids felt heavy when she opened them. She looked up at Nicolae and his eyes were square, bearing into her own…chills ran up her spine.

His fingers brushed strands of hair from her face, "You will forget your unhappiness," his face drew closer, uncomfortably close. Her eyes shut once more, her head swimming. She felt lips against her ear and his so soft voice, "When you wake up, it will be like it never happe


	4. Glad You Came

Chapter 4: Glad You Came

When Claire woke up, she was back in her room. The walls tilted uncomfortably and her skin felt sticky with old sweat. She was in the dress from last night, covered up in the fashion of someone else putting her to bed. Her shoes had been removed and set neatly beside the bed. Someone had taken her hair down and removed her jewelry. As she left her bed for the bathroom, she was astonished to find the majority of her make-up had been removed as well. She groaned, holding her head for a moment as last night tried to break through the fuzziness of her brain.

She remembered going out to eat with Nicolae. She remembered drinking and talking and eating. She remembered getting back in the limo…a pink box and blue drink. Then nothing. She remembered nothing after that save a warm feeling in the center of her stomach. Frightened, she practically tore the dress off and checked herself for strange markings or signs of…_other _things. Nothing.

* * *

Clean, but still hung over, Claire stared at the breakfast before her. She should never have let him buy her forgiveness through alcohol. Picking up her fork, she stabbed at the eggs. Their scrambled consistency gave her stomach inspiration and she excused herself from the table. The downstairs toilet was fast becoming a good friend to her. Claire was just glad Nicolae, Viv and Fortunato woke too early to have breakfast with her so they couldn't revel in her unfortunate state.

Breakfast never lasted so long. In the end, she only managed to eat the banana, the toast and one piece of crispy bacon. The oil would come back to haunt her soon enough. But not soon enough to get her out of the work no doubt waiting for her in the adjoining room. Like a sloth, she dragged herself from the breakfast table to the desk but found no Viv waiting for her. Only a simple schedule, typed, rested on the wood. It gave her a general breakdown of her day: what assignments she would be working on and when they would be picked up. This schedule demarcated no specific person to pick them up nor consequence for incomplete work. She smiled at the simple fact that she didn't have to write a single thing anymore.

* * *

With freedom her own thing now, she managed to get ahead of their schedule. She would show them, as she had shown Nicolae before, that she was more than capable and smarter than their interpretation of her. Once lunch rolled around, her hangover headache and nausea had been replaced but utter exhaustion. She had three more things to do until the rest of the day was hers but she did break to eat something now that her stomach could hold down whatever came her way.

She was surprised to find Nicolae, alone, reading a paper at the table. Her plate had been set at his right hand and she, carefully, made her way to her chair. He folded his paper after she took her seat and smiled at her.

"Feeling better?" he snapped his napkin and set it across one leg.

"Pardon?" she folded her napkin across the entirety of her lap.

"You drank _quite _a bit last night. I expected you to have a hangover. In fact, I'm amazed you're not still asleep," he jabbed at his salad.

"I only drank _quite _a bit because _someone_ kept buying me drinks."

His eyebrows lifted, his mouth too full of salad to respond immediately. She ate some herself, waiting for his response. He chewed methodically, swallowed precisely and took a sip of water to complete the effect.

"Well, I thought you deserved to have a little bit of fun. You've been working so hard after all."

She shrugged a shoulder, "I guess, but alcohol doesn't fix Dysgraphia."

"No, but maybe it is the incentive you need to continue doing well."

_Continue doing well?_ She thought. What was he talking about? Hadn't they just had a conversation about how she had been doing the _exact _opposite less than twenty-four hours ago? Hadn't he bought the alcohol to apologize for how _awful _Viv was?

"No…Alcohol is incentive men give women to get them naked," that made him freeze. "Whatever you bought me inside the pink box…Now, _that_ is incentive for good behavior and grades. But alcohol, nah…that won't change the past."

She moved onto her expertly made sandwich, loaded with turkey and the same bacon that had made her stomach queasy at breakfast. Now all her stomach thought was bacon, bacon, bacon. Nicolae, on the other hand, was staring at her. If she could give a word to the subtle emotion trapped in his face, she would have to choose shocked.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, well, I'm sorry if the first thing I said was crude. It's true, though."

"No, not that," he chuckled but it wasn't an amused sound. It was more a sound trying to cover up nervousness, "The part about changing the past."

"Oh, well," she bit into her sandwich, almost groaned at the rich flavor of the turkey. An empty, fatigued stomach crippled by over excessive alcohol consumption sure did crave funny things. "I just meant that, y'know, me getting drunk won't change how awful she made me feel. I still think she's pretty crummy for acting that way." Okay, **_crummy_**was not the first word Claire had chosen to describe Viv.

"Oh, so you're still _focused _on _that_," Nicolae said it as if he had been expecting her to wipe it from her memory and replace it with her hangover.

"Well, I'm not _focusing _on what she did. I mean, I really like the changes you made. That schedule thing…I can do that. No one to harp on you or make you feel like crap," she bit into her sandwich again and watched Nicolae stare a hole into the table. She watched his tongue poke at the inside of his cheek before he continued eating as well.

Neither of them said much else for the remainder of the meal. Seeming to remain in a state of pondering and perplexing, Nicolae reopened his newspaper and continued reading. Claire finished well before he did and excused herself from the table to finish the three assignments left to her.

"You're piece of cake is in the kitchen, if you still want it," Nicolae said from the table, drawing her mind to the pretty pink box that lingered in her memory.

* * *

One activity Nicolae had attempted to take away, then returned when he found her spending too much time indoors, was horseback riding. It was the only cross cultural hobby Claire could maintain while in Romania…well, it had been the only one she _wanted_ to maintain. Ballet was obnoxious and Nicolae's focus on the presidency meant piano playing was strictly forbidden. So, whenever she finished her assignments early, she was free to go horseback riding on the condition she return to attend any outings previously planned.

So, she rode out her frustrations. She sweated out the resentment that lingered while feeling the direct movements of a horse beneath her. And when she felt particularly hyperactive, nothing felt better than flying over cross rails. Horseback riding seemed to be her best outlet for any and all frustrations. It was by no means a solution, however, as Nicolae found a way to tighten his grip on how structured this outlet was. She would work on Dressage or low-level jumping. She would _not_ be going over six-foot tall fences of vaulting down hills. The thrilling things she enjoyed at home were now cut off from her.

She _would_ wear show boots, a crisp riding shirt and a belt with her jodhpurs. She _would_ keep her hair in a bun, held in a barretted hair-net. She _would _look as lady-like as possible without riding side saddle. She _would not_ wear any shirt she wanted. She _would not_ wear paddock boots with calf chaps. She _would _accept the gender role he wanted for her or she _would not_ participate at all. She would appear as the picture perfect young rider who he encouraged because that is what the people wanted to see, regardless of the fact that she wasn't Romanian.

* * *

More and more, in the weeks that passed, he began constricting what she did, said and especially, wore. Clothes, among other things, were very important to him…or rather, appearance was everything. Since he was taking her out more, the more clothes seemed to appear in her room without her asking. The more the clothes she had packed, originally, became abandoned except for the few hours she did her work at the estate.

Carolina Herrera, Elie Saab, Christian Dior…Chanel to compliment his Armani. She was disturbed how her once empty wardrobe now almost didn't shut because of the ludicrous contents inside. A rainbow of Jimmy Choo littered the closet floor. The red-backed Louboutins dotted here and there, while Manolo Blahnik sat in boxes, waiting to be worn. Shoes flown in from Russia because Romania didn't have these stores yet…ridiculous to her. The London chic she often avoided was now unavoidable.

She attempted to circumvent the situation on some occasions. She feigned her period and cramps so she didn't have to go to a lofty dinner, full of prospective patrons. Unfortunately for her, when her real monthly guest visited, she had no excuse to give. Stomach bug wouldn't work, headaches were offered prescription medication and fevers were dissolved by vigilant eyes watching the thermometer lest she hold it over the light bulb.

He toted her around, paraded her to and fro. Her feet hurt so bad by the end of some nights, she almost cried. And the worst part of it all was that she couldn't, for the life of her, figure out why he was doing it. She was no longer the extension of her father's arm. Somehow, she had undergone a subtle evolution into her own entity. Patrons were fascinated by her…by her potential, whatever that potential may be.

Perhaps he wanted to keep a closer eye on her. Perhaps he hoped the pictures cameras often took would land on a certain desk in Manhattan. Perhaps he was bored and this was his version of torture…if he had to be miserable, then she would be too. Neither Viv nor Leon were jealous, that's for sure. That irked her more.

So, on the night of a benefit being thrown in his honor by some richer somebody, she asked him, "Why not just take someone else? Take Viv…take Mr. Fortunato," her feet stung as she slid them into the elaborate straps of Manolo. "Take one of the many women you sleep with, for goodness sake! Let me stay here."

Claire sat, refusing to budge while he origami-ed his tie. She'd attempted to lock herself in her room one night and since then, he had taken it upon himself to corral her in his room while he finished dressing. This meant he dressed in the bathroom, but locked his door from the inside so her only means of escape was the balcony outside his room. He failed to realize sometimes, that she was not beyond scaling a wall to avoid these functions.

"Stop whining, Clarissa…it's hardly flattering," he answered her, looking at her in the mirror, "And you're not to mention those women again…Understood?"

She gave him a scathing look, "I'm just saying one of them is more reasonable to take than me. I don't know these people and I don't know how to speak Romanian. For all I know, you could be taking me to sell me to the highest bidder."

His fingers stopped what they were doing, his eyes narrowing at her before closing so he could laugh. The laugh was soft, low and dangerous, "Trust me, Clarissa, I couldn't _sell _you if I wanted to. They'd only send you back…"

Her expression was incredulous as she leaned back and watched him resume his work with the tie. Whatever elaborate knot he was going for simply wasn't manifesting between his fingers and the material. She thought she actually heard him growl. She smirked and crossed one leg over the other, her elbow planting itself there while her hand cradled her cheek.

"Nervous? Maybe we shouldn't go."

"I'm not nervous, Clarissa!" he snapped at her as his fingers dropped the tie. His fingers massaged his temples. "You're frustrating me."

"How?" this game was fun.

"By asking bothersome questions and being obstinate, borderline disrespectful, about attending this function," he slid the tie from around his neck with one sharp move, looking down at it as if the silk that it was made from was being as stubborn as she.

"Then you should really take-"

"Enough! Now get up before you wrinkle that dress," he tossed down the tie and took up another, clearly discontented that he had to choose one less perfect.

"The other one," she said as she stood and smoothed the back of the dress. He glanced her way, one brow raised as he compared the two ties again and took up the one he had fought with. She wasn't surprised to see him struggle once more; he forced everything around him to do as he willed and when things didn't bend... Rather than deal with his piss poor temper the rest of the evening, she decided to intervene. She moved over to him and innocently smacked his hands away.

He straightened up. She felt him looking down at him, bemused. She wouldn't look at him. Concentrating on the tie was excuse enough not to. Her delicate fingers, manicured earlier that day, coaxed the slippery material up and through the double loops she had made. Tightening it near the middle of his throat, she ended his cross knot. She took a step back, assessed her work then nodded with approval.

"Thank you," he said, studying her design in the mirror with budding satisfaction. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"My brother, Matthew…He's a bit of a butterfingers. He was poor at holding down a job, so interviews were frequent when I was younger. He taught me how to tie one in the event he was too nervous the morning of his interview to do it himself. I think he learned from this step-by-step picture manual I found in his house."

"Ah, yes…Matthew," the inflection in his voice made her brother's name sound like some inside joke. "And you lived with him when in order to learn this?" the eyebrow was back up, his fingers manipulating cufflinks into place. He could do that on his own.

"He lived with us for a brief stint, until he found himself a steady job. Then he moved to London," she shrugged.

He nodded once, message received and any other details simply boring. Cufflinks in place, he turned to her and studied the dress that had been chosen on her behalf. Elie Saab…Champagne in color, there was a deep V-neckline that connected with a band of silk that wrapped like an empire waist. The rest of the dress, sleeves and gown, was made of billowy chiffon. She felt it exposed a little too much skin for her comfort level. The neckline was not her favorite since she was ample and tonight, it showed.

"You look unhappy about something," he stated.

Her lip twitched, "I've never worn anything like this before."

"Nonsense…you've been wearing things like this for days now."

"Not quite as," she scrambled for the right word, "dramatic as tonight."

He seemed to catch the meaning and smirked, looking her in the eyes with something a few shades darker than encouraging appreciation, "I don't think you've ever looked lovelier."

"I'm not completely comfortable about going to this…whatever tonight is."

"Do you realize how many other girls," his fingers brushed a stray hair behind her ear, "How many women would kill to be you tonight…right now?"

She didn't like how casually he tossed aside her discomfort, attempting to replace it with sugar-coated adulation. Her feet stung, pins scraped her scalp to keep curls in place, and she couldn't help but fear she was topping out of her top too much. "I'd be willing to trade places…No homicide required."

"Maybe I can change your mind."

She felt his eyes trail up and down at a leisurely pace before he told her to turn around. Confused, she did as he asked as slowly as possible. She heard movement, a small creaking sound and then felt something cool loop around her neck. A small jolt went up her spine as Nicolae clasped the necklace. Taking her shoulders in his hands, he turned her back toward the mirror and she sucked in a hard breath. A teardrop shaped diamond, matching in color to her dress, rested against the middle of her chest. The most feminine part of her reached up to touch the diamond as another creaking sound broke the surprised air around them. She watched his mirror reflection slide complementary earrings on. Princess cut, round in shape but the same color as the necklace.

She was actually speechless. Her father had never bought her anything so extravagant and though she was more than sure this was a reflection of her father's money, not Nicolae's, the gesture was appreciated. Her mute, statue-still disposition seemed to be thanks enough for him as he smiled at her in the mirror.

"I was going to get a bracelet too but I thought…No, too much."

"I…Thank you," how soft her voice was, shocked her.

"You're welcome," he took her by the arm and led her toward the door, scooping up his coat and her shawl in the process. "I know I've been rather demanding lately. I wanted to find a way to let you know you're attendance and flexibility has been appreciated."

"They're beautiful," again, she had limited responses to his gift. He laughed as he unlocked the door and moved them into the hallway. He slid on his jacket then draped her shawl around her shoulders, running his hands down her arms to her elbows.

"Nothing compared to their wearer. You deserve them. My only condition is that you try and enjoy this evening?" one hand held her elbow, the other moved to tilt her chin up and forced her to look at him.

Now she felt obliged to enjoy something she knew she wouldn't. Obliged to repay him for the immense kindness. Obliged to him. Her smile was soft, sweet and utterly fake, "I'll try my best."

"That's all I ask."

* * *

The gala was, upon arrival, uneventful and dull from the perspective of an ego-centric teenager. The only relief was in the fact that most of the guests spoke English. Or, at least, they spoke English around her. For all his admiration and cajoling before they left, Nicolae spent no time with her beyond introducing her to the appropriate people. Once chance presented itself, he was gone into the crowd and dealing business, earning support…earning money. So, she was abandoned to the awkward position of mingling amongst strangers who humored her presence, her questions but, on the whole, observed her from afar and with confusion. She was just a girl playing dress-up to most of them. And to those who didn't see her that way, they saw her as an incongruous guest on the list…a condition to the agreement in getting Nicolae to appear.

After about an hour of feeling their stares, an hour of asking the same round of questions to fifteen different people, she was rescued by a dark-haired knight in Oscar de la Renta. He manifested from somewhere behind her, two drinks in hand. After offering one to her, he took her arm in his and excused her from the older man she was "talking" to. She didn't even catch his name before he led her away from her grueling agony.

"I'm sorry…I could only watch you suffer for so long," he chuckled, releasing her arm as they stopped near a piano. This room was empty and dimly lit. The space was relaxing, her anxiety up from being spontaneously touched by him, and many others.

She looked at him for a second. He had a similar build to Nicolae, athletic, but he was slimmer and his face, though handsome, had a small scar. His skin was more olive in tone, his eyes a deliriously lovely shade of brown sugar. His hair, dark, was tamed but she knew from a few curly strands against his forehead that taming it had been a battle. His smile was genuine, warm with a hint of playfulness. He felt oddly comfortable in his company.

"Well, then I have to profusely thank you because I don't think I could have lasted much longer," she looked down at the drink and took a sip to give herself something to do, besides gawk at him.

"Name's Sergei," he jutted his hand out, "You must be Clarissa…The Stonagal child." His accent was a notch thicker than Nicolae's, but his voice was no less enjoyable to list to.

She shook his hand once, "Yes, that would be me. Bet you're wondering why I'm here…like all the rest of them."

He lifted his glass, paused to consider her statement, then drank half the contents, "No, I know why he brought you."

That was shocking. There was no love in his voice, no admiration or praise, no nothing for Nicolae. Well, maybe there was some dislike, disdain even? She fidgeted and stepped closer to the piano, her fingers idling over the keys, "Oh? And why did he bring me?"

"To show off his fancy, super-wealthy connections. To make people envy him, trust him in some sordid manner," she looked back at him. He was clearly agitated and maybe the drink wasn't helping. His expression softened in response to something in her face. "I don't meant to blame you! It's not your fault you're being used…He has that effect on people."

The bitterness was more blatant this time around. Intrigued, she asked, "What effect on people?"

He seemed confused that she would be asking him that. Maybe he assumed, since she had spent so much time with him, she knew more than he did. Suddenly he was smiling and moved up to her. He leaned against the piano, leaving her the only option of sitting on the piano stool. She sat and he loomed over her, non-threatening in nature.

"He manipulates people into loving him. The way he talks to people, makes promises, flashes that smile of this…makes women melt and men want to be him, or know him at the very least. He draws them in, uses them then leaves him behind when they are no longer of use. And the entire time, these people remained enamored of him...even long after they've been abandoned," he finished the last half of his drink. His brows scrunched together as he continued explaining, "He's like a drug. People become addicted, then bad things happen when the drug wears off."

Her eyes widened. No one had ever had a _bad _thing to say about Nicolae. This was fascinating. "What kind of bad things?"

"Well, not withdrawal, y'know. More like broken heartedness…pining, craving. They do stupid things to try and get his attention again. I see it more often in women than men, though. This city, and others, is littered with the women he's drawn in then dumped. Men have it easier…maybe. When they're no longer useful, they just get sent to the backdrop."

"Sounds awful…But, if you don't mind my asking, what does this have to do with me?" she wasn't like the women he mentioned, and she saw, nor the men since she didn't have anything of great value to add to Nicolae's campaign.

"You're a pretty little pawn for him to manipulate. I bet he hopes you'll attract more attention from more notable sorts. Since your father can't be here to impress, you're the next best thing. You're more impressionable, too. Whoever controls the young girl most, controls her father, no?"

That was a disturbing way to think about her being here. It, however, was not totally unbelievable either. In fact, it made sense no matter how unsettling the context. The only correction she would make would be that whoever could actually _control_ her, would not control her father but certainly earn a substantial amount of his respect and trust. Her stomach burned from the drink and revelation. She had assumed, but never fully believed, Nicolae was training her…controlling her. She knew he could be controlling, but she imagined herself of stronger, more resilient substance.

"Ah, I see that you know what I'm talking about. I'm sorry if my words have hurt you, but if I can spare one more person, especially an innocent like you, from being a fly in his web then I've done something good," his audacious hand reached out to stroke her cheek.

She snapped too and drew back an inch, "That's not the only reason you dislike him so much, is it Mr. Sergei?"

His eyes widened and he laughed once more, "Observant one, you are! Maybe I need not worry about you as much as I did… Nicolae may not deceive you as well as the others with sharp eyes like those."

He motioned her to scoot a bit. She slid to the other half of the piano stool, it barely being made for two people. He sat beside her and moved his hands over the keys. Expert precision produced Bach. She felt him evading and didn't have the time to indulge that. He had produced a map, taken her down a few side streets and now he wanted to stop? Backtrack? Maybe he was about to correct himself, become nervous like others had become when they mistakenly said something unfavorable about Nicolae. Maybe it was his mystery status, maybe it was the drink but whatever it was, Sergei had an enormous amount of confidence.

"Mr. Sergei-"

"Just Sergei…No mister in front, no need," his fingers continued playing and to humor him, she joined in with a harmonizing clink of the keys.

That drew his excited eyes to her own. She smirked, "Who are you Sergei? What has he done to you?"

He smirked back and stopped playing, one hand pressing into the keys while the other moved around her. He leaned toward her, a whiff of alcohol giving her a good clue into how much time Sergei had spent at the bar. She felt his fingers drum on the wood behind her bottom, her body turning to look him full in the face. The piano was no longer a distraction. They were walking further down an alleyway.

"This is my uncle's home. He's drawing my own family in and they're eating his words up like chocolate. Flies to honey…it's so nauseating that I can see right through him and his lies, but anytime I bring this up to my uncle he just swats me away. Says I'm not seeing the bigger picture," his tone dropped, his expression hardening. "But I see it alright…I see Carpathia leeching every cent from my uncle."

"I'm sorry. I hope you aren't expecting me to do anything about it," she didn't like the realization she was being manipulated by Carpathia. She definitely wouldn't be manipulated by this handsome drunk, either.

He bowed his head, shook it. He looked back up at her, his countenance soft again, "No. Maybe I just needed someone to talk to. Maybe I just wanted to rescue you from the mire, maybe I wanted to rescue you from him. That and, no offense, you're quite attractive."

His fingers moved from the wood to touch her bottom, resting there before moving up her back. Fingers evolved into the palm of his hand resting firmly against her back. His intentions were all too clear, even before his head leaned in. Her hand flew up to press his shoulder back, her body pushing against the hand on her back. The hand didn't relax.

"I'm only fourteen…this isn't appropriate, flattered though I am," she lied to spare his feelings, for whatever reason. She wasn't flattered at all. His alcoholic eyes were faltering between staring at her face and her breasts. This is why she hated the dress. Wrong impressions all around.

He was bigger, stronger than her and didn't seem accustomed to being refused. His hand slid higher up on her back, the pressure increasing until he was drawing her closer. His mouth darted forward and she angled her face away, feeling his boozy lips against the hinge of her jaw. She could feel him growing annoyed. His other hand came up to hold her jaw and turn her face to his. He clamped his mouth down, even though she shook her head. Her whole mind was aflutter with panic. No one had seen where he took her…Nicolae was off, somewhere she didn't know. This man had too many advantages with too many intentions. Resolved, one wrist knocked away the hand that held her face while her other hand smacked him hard.

She watched his head snap to one side and before he could retaliate, she kicked him hard in the ankle with the heel of her shoe. He howled, falling over the stool in an effort to hold his cheek and grab his ankle. She was up in a flash, rushing for the door. He recovered easily and grabbed her by the wrist, using a swinging momentum to knock her up against a wall. The air rushed out of her body for a moment, the room tilting from his attack. She felt him press against her body and lost it. While his hands tinkered up from her hips, she grabbed his shoulders and mercilessly kneed him between the legs.

The only sound he made was a pitiful groan as the same knee came flying down to jab her heel into the top of his foot. Crying out, he retreated a small distance. He was cursing, in Romanian and looking up at her with rage as she slid along the wall toward the door. He snarled, "Stupid bitch!"

He threw herself at her, fist raised in retaliation. Claire shrieked and covered her face with her arms, protecting her face from the impending pain. It never came. The only thing she heard in the tension-filled space was the sound of her own ragged breathing and small, infrequent sobs. Her shaky arms gradually came down so she could see what was going on…what had happened to Sergei?

The answer was before her. Nicolae was standing between them, his back to her. One hand was gripping Sergei's wrist so hard, his knuckles were a disturbing shade of white. The other hand had Sergei's shirt color twisted up in a fist. The way Nicolae seemed to lift him off the ground meant he had been shorter than she assumed. No words were spoken, only glares and bared teeth were exchanged.

"Get up, Clarissa," his voice was so cold, so direct that she didn't dare disobey.

She scrambled to her feet, shaking as she moved to get a better look at the two of them. Her stomach dropped, crocheted into a pretzel. Nicolae's face was contorted into something of nightmares. She knew the only emotion he was feeling was pure and utter anger. Something told her, in the white of his knuckles, that he was struggling not to kill Sergei.

"I want to go…now," she whispered, her blood pumping fast with fear. She could feel a small crowd gather at the doorway. Whispering started. Nicolae snapped his eyes on her and she froze, save for a hard swallow. Her bottom lip trembled as she glanced toward the door, then back at the two of them, "Please."

His expression evaporated, immediately softened as he released Sergei with a disgraceful shove backward. Sergei tried to gain his balance but took a tumble onto his behind. His was a look of vehement hate at Nicolae. Sergei didn't even bother to look her way, which she was thankful for. Nicolae didn't seem to pay Sergei mind as he moved and took Claire's arm with one hand. He led her to the crowd, which quickly dispersed as their guest of honor approached. An older gentleman, similar features as Sergei but with greying, more cooperative hair and a rounder belly, approached.

Nicolae seemed not to care as he headed straight for the door. The man followed, speaking quickly in what she assumed was a dialect of Romanian. Nicolae snatched her shawl from a butler and handed it to her. He gave a curt, short response to the man before slamming the door behind them. The gravel crunched beneath their feet as they walked to the limo. Nicolae forked the door open himself when the driver scrambled away from a smoke-break. He didn't throw her inside, but he wasn't particularly gentle either. He climbed in next, snapping the door closed.

His hands balled into fists against his knees. His eyes avoided her, staring into the open space between them if they weren't closed. He closed them for a long time, until his hands relaxed. When he looked at her again, he wasn't happy.

"What were you thinking?!"

"W-what do you mean?"

"Do not stammer and do not blame dumb with me, Clarissa! You, as you so frequently point out, are not stupid! Why, then, would a girl with an iota of intelligence wander off with a complete stranger?!"

"I didn't know what he was going to do!" she was hurt he was blaming all this on her.

"Even more reason _not_ to go with him! You should have stayed where I left you!" his voice continued to grow in volume.

"You shouldn't have left me at all!" she screamed, her eyes stinging as her shock wore off and reality set in. She could have been…

He became very quiet, staring at her. She caught him at a loss for words. He wasn't used to catering to a young person, that much was for certain and he was even less used to catering to someone as uninterested in what he was trying to do as she was. Sergei had been right about one thing…Nicolae was certainly used to people falling head over heels for him, dancing to his tune…to his rhythm. He pulled the strings and they moved their puppet bodies to his will. Not her. He pulled the strings and they got tangled, she remained immobile unless viciously jerked. She fought him, resisted. She was a puzzle he hadn't the patience to figure out.

"I thought you could handle talking to a few people, sitting there until I returned. Clearly I expected too much," she resented his disappointed, blaming tone.

"I told you I didn't want to go…" she murmured off to the side, looking away since she was too close to crying for her own comfort.

"Honestly, I afford you an opportunity to grow up and what do you do with it?! You have no sense of responsibility, do you?" he was sneering, working his temper back up to a comfortable level of angry, "You just expect someone to swoop in and clean up your messes! Clean up your messes at school, clean up your messes at home, clean up your messes when you crash a car into a light post!"

She felt like someone punched her in the stomach. No one was supposed to know about her joyriding incident except her father and the people he paid to keep quiet about it. The fact that Nicolae knew meant her father was all too comfortable discussing her in a negative context. Whatever few tears had threatened to fall retreated as her temper grew with the coloring of her cheeks.

"I didn't ask you to do anything!"

His eyes narrowed, "And what were you going to do? Sit on the floor and let him hit you? Scream your head off until he left?"

"No, I never asked you to interfere with my life, period! I didn't ask you to tutor me back in England and I certainly didn't ask you to drag me here!"

From watching him, she could tell he was holding back a particularly vicious comment. For whatever reason, he didn't say anything. He released a long, exhale through his nose, his fingers drumming against his knees.

"I have my reasons, Clarissa. Some people would be grateful," his voice tensed on the word 'grateful'.

"And I was until you so aptly pointed out how I ruin everything!" she couldn't calm as easily as he did.

"I never said you _ruin _everything, I said you don't take responsibility for your _messes_. There is a fragile, but distinct, difference."

"…You blame me for what that man almost did to me," her voice was quiet, but full of venom as she moved as far from him as she could.

He stared at where she had just been, unable to look at her once again. That was fine, she didn't want to look at him either. She just wanted to get out of this car and _away _from him. She wanted to run and not stop running until her body collapsed.

"No, I blame you for ruining an opportunity to gain another patron," his voice was the quietest she had ever heard it. Well, at least he had been honest.

She didn't say anything, her temper flaring when she felt the tears come back up. She didn't want him to see her cry and hastily wiped them away with the back of her hand. She glanced his way. He was looking out his window, eyes on the passing landscape.

"What did you tell him when we left?"

He was silent for a minute before responding, "I told him I wouldn't do business with a man who let his nephew rape innocent girls."


	5. Coming Home

Chapter 5: Coming Home

Their argument thundered in her ears for hours after she stormed out of the car. The limo had barely hit the brakes in front of the mansion before she was flinging open the door and racing for the front door. He screamed her name from behind her, but she ignored him as she threw open the door and marched her way toward the stairs. Viv was somewhere beside her, coming out of a room. She moved faster once she heard him enter the house. Viv, eyes wide, reached out to grab her arm but Claire snaked her way out of the woman's reach and sprinted up the stairs.

"Clarissa! Come back down here!" he was faster, since he wasn't wearing heels, and had hollered after her.

"No!" she had shouted back, barely sliding into her room before his resounding footsteps up the flight echoed in the air around them.

She had shut and locked the door, backing away to catch her breath. Her feet kicked off the Manolos, their straps leaving budding blisters on the sides of her feet. Breath caught in her lungs as a fist pounded on the door. She didn't need to see him to know how angry he was. Nobody simply walked away from Nicolae Carpathia…not without his dismissal, at least. Summing up her resolve, she blatantly ignored his enraged pounding and not-so-subtle cursing from the hallway. She had taken a shower instead of indulging his need for a fight.

By the time she'd gotten out of the shower, he was gone and she could sleep. She set the jewelry on the dresser, staring at the pieces with an uncertainty of what to do with them. Should she give them back? Leave them here? Would both of those things be rude to do if they were gifts? Since they were just that, maybe she was free to keep them. She hadn't pondered on the situation long, since she was most than sure he would let her know the following day. So, she had dressed for bed and slid beneath the covered but sleep didn't come easily. His words haunted her, irritated her and redrew tears to her eyes. Flashes of the piano room scene blipped in her mind, but not more than their fight in the limo. When she finally did fall asleep, it was remembering herself at home…just after the famed car incident. Mosby's thump-thump-thumping in her ear drowned out anything else.

* * *

The atmosphere was nothing less than tense for the next few days. To spare her own hide, she had stayed in her room past breakfast time. Until she knew he was in his office for the day, she didn't leave the safety of the room assigned her. Her movements were precise and quiet, wanting to avoid detection by any means. He wasn't without his moves either. It seemed if she weren't present for breakfast, she wouldn't be getting any. Servants seemed nervous, frightened even, to try slipping her something. Not only were their eyes on her, they were on each other.

What she hadn't predicted was the lack of any work for her to do. Math and Science books had been hidden away somewhere. Nothing lay waiting for her to complete and no one had an explanation for her. No expectation of what she was supposed to do was given to her. She didn't see Viv for hours and when she did, she was blatantly ignored. That was fine enough for her since there was a baby grand piano she could occupy her time with. Pens and paper for composing and empty rooms to lose herself in, if she so wished. No one came to tell her when meals were ready but given the electricity in the air, one comment between she and him could spark and explosion no one wanted to clean up.

It was the third day after the disaster dinner when Claire got a really good idea of why she had been suddenly abandoned to her independence. While composing and playing piano were her preferred outlets for academic success, she could only compose if the music came to her and only played what she really needed to practice, which were usually her compositions. So, she was caught in a Catch-22 of sorts. Meandering the halls upstairs proved fruitless, as every door but her own was locked or opened to boring, nothingness of interest…replicas of her room in different wallpaper and paint.

Downstairs was a different story. She stopped by the kitchen, where no one pretended to see her or notice her absconding food, then made her way from the familiar rooms to his hallway. Three days was more than enough time for the both of them to wade to a place where they could admit mutual apology. The hallway, usually bustling with movement of people to and fro Nicolae's office, was creepily silent and still. Therefore, she had to make sure her steps echoed the setting. Maybe they were all out. They could be, since no one told her where anyone was now.

But they weren't. The closer to his office she came, the louder the voices became. They were speaking quietly to one another, the three of them. She heard Nicolae, obviously, with Viv and Leon. She stopped, leaning against the wall, eavesdropping on their conversation and waiting for an appropriate time to knock on the door. That opportunity never came.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carpathia," Leon said, true apology soaking his words.

"It's not anyone in here who should be sorry," Viv hissed and she could picture the woman drumming those claw-like nails against her arm.

"Viv has a point…this is entirely _her _fault," Nicolae's voice held no more emotion than Viv's.

"I'm sure she didn't mean to do anything. You said yourself that she could never have known he would do that," Leon came to her defense and her stomach twisted when she realized they were talking about her.

"She should have just done as she was told!" Viv snapped.

Nicolae made some agreeing noise, "I should have _never _brought her here. She has _ruined_ a great deal of my hard work."

"It wasn't your choice to bring her here and it wasn't your fault you were kind enough to try and _help_ her," Viv soothed and Claire wasn't sure if she should be hurt or angry.

"Very true," Leon echoed, the bobbing of his head that she couldn't see so evident in his tone it was laughable. "From the way you explained it before you left, Mr. Stonagal left you no other course of action."

"He just doesn't want to do the job, himself. They are too much alike, she and he…both expecting others to clean their messes for them. I should have gotten rid of her when I had the chance," Nicolae's voice lacked much inflection, except for the regret in the last comment. Her chest tightened.

"Meaning…?" Leon seemed as confused as she was, though not nearly as frightened.

"I wouldn't have killed her!" Nicolae sounded disgusted and then Viv caught in, "No one would blame you if you did."

No one said anything for a minute or so. She couldn't tell if that was because they were contemplating Viv's statement or silently lambasting her for it. Either way, the silence was uncomfortable. She relaxed once Viv began speaking again.

"I'm just saying…she's ungrateful, disrespectful, stubborn, mouthy…She's out of control with no good prognosis on the immediate horizon. She makes everyone around her miserable. Think about it, Nicolae…her own father can't stand her. To the point where he has to dump her on you and he knows he can because he assumes you wouldn't dare refuse any request he makes of you!"

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree," Leon murmured.

"So, you see it too then Leon?" Nicolae asked and she heard his chair creak, meaning he was getting up.

Claire moved an inch closer, just in case they decided to speak softer. Her heart was so loud in her chest, it hurt her ears to stand in silence. Leon was considering his words carefully, though why would be anyone's guess. Viv had just said she wouldn't care of Nicolae had flat out killed her, so what could Leon have to say that was so bad that it needed tempering compared to _that_.

"I see that she is a productive of a lucrative, but desolate environment. Her father can afford to give her anything material she could possibly want in this world, but doesn't seem able to give her the nurture and affection a father ought to give. So, to some degree, yes…she is just like her father but _only because_ he hasn't taught her to be better than himself. How can she act out what has _never_ been modeled for her?"

There was another pregnant pause between the trifecta. She heard the rhythm of drumming fingers. Nicolae's, if she were to hedge a bet. Possessive, Nicolae didn't even let others touch his desk without permission, whether verbal or non-verbal.

"That's all well and good but she isn't a child, she's a teenager. People need to stop making excuses for a young woman fully capable of changing her ways," Viv would never be one to give Claire the benefit of the doubt.

"Forgive me for disagreeing Ms. Ivins," Leon continued, pressing an iota more than he did before, "But I think if she was given the opportunity, encouragement and direction to change…she would. She's always been sheltered by the force that is Jonathan Stonagal, so who has she ever had to fear? And he has never been the need to be a parent to her. From what I hear, he just gives in rather than stand firm. She's learned she can win _any_ battle with him and not face real consequences. If she were faced with someone who wouldn't easily back down, she would learn and grow."

"We tried that!" Viv snapped again and this time, from a change in atmosphere, she received reproach for it.

"Both of you have valid arguments. We have tried to be structured and we have tried to be encouraging, fostering strengths but nothing seems to be working. Whenever she does make progress, she destroys it and I don't have the time, patience or desire to deal with that," the chair creaked again as Nicolae sat back down. She heard his fingers tap away at his laptop.

A sudden ring tone broke the conversation. Claire shook from the statue position she had been in and listened to Leon excuse himself. Paniced, Claire tiptoes back down a few feet and ducked into an empty bathroom. She watched Fortunato flutter past through a crack in the door. She stepped back out and heard him retreat upstairs. That gave her permission to return to her post outside Nicolae's office.

"Nicolae," Viv said with that same soothing voice she had started with, "While I hold Mr. Fortunato's words in high regard…he is _wrong_ about Clarissa."

Though she knew they had been speaking about her all along, the actual use of her name made it all more painful somehow. In the end, these three were the same as anyone else. They would never extend themselves to truly know her or try things from her perspective. She would only be a troublemaker to them. Her eyes stung, swollen with tears. Overflowing, they trailed down her cheeks…slow streams.

"Hm, I fear you are right, Viv," he exhaled an exhausted sigh. Was he exhausted with the work before him, the conversation he was having or with _her_? "I ought to send her back."

"You ought to send her away. I'm sure Jonathan wouldn't care either way. A problem _eliminated _is no different from a problem solved," Viv tried too hard to sound sage.

"You're treading a thin line, Ms. Ivins," Claire was surprised by the ice in Nicolae's voice. Apparently, Viv was too as she quickly whispered something Claire assumed was an apology.

"All I'm saying is that I agree with you getting her out of here."

"I haven't definitively decided anything," the typing told Claire Nicolae was disengaging from this discussion. Apparently, Viv was not as important to him as what was on the screen.

"_She is a monster!_" Viv sounded like a snake she hissed so hard.

"_Viv_," Nicolae's voice was firm, "I do not have a decision at this time." He paused and Ms. Ivins must have backed away from his personal space. "But I don't disagree with you."

* * *

Years ago, in an attempt to run away from her home and her father, Claire had done the unthinkable for her age. She had accomplished something depicted only in television shows. She had stolen the keys to one of her father's many cars and driven it away. Far from being anywhere near proficient, or even good, at driving…it had taken Claire fifteen minutes to run the car off the road and into a power pole. She hadn't been going particularly fast, just fast enough to dent the hood of the car pretty good and release the air bags.

Claire had almost broken her nose and collarbone. Someone passing had stopped, pulled her from the car and called an ambulance. She had come to just as the paramedics arrived. They had strapped her to a gurney then driven off to the nearest hospital. All the while, her father remained under the assumption she was in her room. He had believed she was crying off the painful, but truthful, words he had shouted at her. Whether he regretted them after he found out what happened was left to the imagination.

She thought about that memory as she trailed down the stairs. Deciding to face her oppressors, she appeared at dinner. Much to their amazement, she sat herself down in her usual seat and ate every bit of food placed before her. The only person at the table she didn't hate was Leon. At least he had tried to find alternative rationales for her behavior. He was probably right about it too. Continuing to astound them, she brought up conversation and eventually led it to what kind of cars they drove. Nicolae had rolled his eyes, saying people drove him around. Leon was more or less in the same boat now that he worked closely beside Nicolae. Viv was also toted around, but not as important as the two men and therefor, resigned to driving herself at times. But when she drove, Viv drove in style and had a silver Jaguar in the multicar garage attached to the side of the mansion.

Therefore, since she now knew she was absolutely not welcome nor wanted, she took inspiration for her previous indiscretion and swiped Viv's purse. Too comfortable in her own home, and not nearly suspicious enough of Claire's behavior for the amount of disdain she had for the girl, Viv tended to leave her purse in one of three places. One was obviously her room, which was locked whether Viv was in it or not. The other two, Claire assumed Ms. Ivins thought they were more clandestine, happened to be the liquor cabinet in the kitchen and beneath the sink in the second downstairs bathroom. Knowing the purse was in the liquor cabinet would put Claire in an even more precarious situation because if she didn't look like she was stealing, she looked like she was a teenage drunk.

Viv also had minute portions of possessive tendencies. With a Jaguar in the garage, she was not going to leave the keys to anyone but herself…probably Nicolae too, but that was neither here nor there. Claire had taken the keys and replaced them with some she had found hanging near the entry way to the garage. In addition to the keys, Claire had snatched one of Viv's credit cards before replacing the purse in the liquor cabinet after the kitchen had cleared for the night. Hiding herself away in her room, Claire used her laptop and Viv's MasterCard to buy herself a one-way ticket back to England the next afternoon. She knew Nicolae and Leon would be gone to meeting, preparing themselves for the ever-so-close presidential elections. Viv, whose schedule Claire knew poorly, was rumored to be visiting an old friend for lunch. So, Claire would be free to get herself out of dodge.

She packed up her bags…she had twice the amount of clothing now and struggled with what to take and what to leave. Mosby and Genasha were tucked safely into her carryon, along with the jewelry Nicolae had given her and never taken back, some make-up and a change of clothes. Her purse was neatly arranged with her billfold, passport and house keys. Not wanting to raise suspicion, she would check-in to her British Airways flight at the airport. The rest of her bags contained a mix of the clothes Nicolae had bought and those she had brought. The outfit she planned for the next day was a simple, but expensive, gray dress with a scarf and heels. Large sunglasses would hide the immaturity in her face and so long as she walked with a purpose, no one would turn their heads twice at her.

Her appearance would be neutral colored, indiscriminate but sleek and professional at the same time. She would appear as the person people most wanted to sit beside and least likely to bother. Just enough discretion to get her on the plane without hiccup and enough "Wow!" to get her bumped to first class, if need be. Coach would definitely be a two-hour adventure, that's for sure. But she would have to get to the airport first. So, the rest of the evening was spent researching, recording and memorizing the trip from the mansion to the airport. Speed limits, turns and traffic conditions rattled around in her brain before she realized Viv's car probably had a GPS of some kind. At least she would be prepared.

Cell phone alarm set, Claire laid in bed for many hours. Too excited to sleep for very long, she awoke hours before her plane would take off. She showered and dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, which only served the purpose of decoy as she sat down to breakfast with Nicolae and Viv. Playing her deception to its fullest, she asked what she was expected to do while they were gone for the day. Catching suspicion in their eyes, Claire shrugged and said her father had called her the night before and had wanted an update on how she was doing. Buying it, neither gave her a straight answer but both seemed to expect her not to make trouble while they were away. She continued her pretend wondering, asking what they would doing later that evening. By that point, Viv and Nicolae finished eating and had left the room.

* * *

She became nervous the closer their departure came. She couldn't leave until they were ten minutes gone. That gave the house enough time to quiet down, most of the staff taking lunch breaks when he was away, and created enough distance from their limo and the house to prevent them from doubling back and stopping her with any sort of accomplishment. So, she paced her room, anticipating two sets of cars driving off with their cargo and waited _fifteen_ minutes before putting her plan into action. Five extra minutes made the difference, she told herself, as she stepped into an absolutely silent hallway. Shouldering her carryon and purse, she escaped her room with one bag wheeling behind her.

Just to be safe, Claire took the back stairway that led down to the kitchen. It cost her more time, but meant she would _not_ encounter any lingering staff members. Though, she was sure not a single one was in the house and if they were, they weren't on this side of it. Finagling her way into the garage, Claire's heels clicked against the pavement until she came to the leaping figure of the Jaguar hood ornament. Claire extracted Viv's stolen keys from her purse and stared at the key pad as she hit the button to open the truck. She would not have the alarm blaring off because of nervous fingers. She popped her two bags into the trunk then shut it as quietly as possible.

Looking over her shoulders and around herself numerous times, she unlocked the car and slid into the driver's side. She breathed in the smell of peonies, watching the air-freshener jingle from the reverberation of the shutting door. Anxiety and thrill bubbled in her stomach as she cranked the car. The revving of the engine flooded her bloodstream and she felt a new confidence borne inside herself. In one fluid moment, she snapped a black Hermes scarf from her purse. In the airport, it would decorate her neck but for now it would cover the ostentatious sound of her dark red hair, which had been carefully styled for the occasion.

Once the scarf was secure and hiding the crown of her head, most of the back too, she slid the large-rimmed sunglasses onto her neck. Had she bothered to find and wear black driving gloves, she would have resembled Audrey Hepburn of days so long gone by. She did look chic, though, with her fitted dress and black pumps. Not wanting to waste anymore time admiring her Bond Girl alter-ego, she fastened her seat belt, punched the address into the built-in GPS and shifted the gear to drive. Thank goodness Ms. Ivins was too insecure to drive a standard transmission.

She drove achingly slow out of the garage, tapping the garage door button hooked to the flip-down mirror. She braked long enough to plug her iPod into the stereo system and began the panic-attack inducing drive down the drive way. Maybe it was the constant leaving of cars following Nicolae's departure, maybe it was the lax attitude workers took once their boss was not in the vicinity of watching their work but whatever it was…the guard at the gate barely glanced up from his book before hitting a key and opening the gates. He gave a lazy wave as she pulled past him, murmuring something polite, but distracted, in Romanian. She didn't look back, turned right and pressed gently against the acceleration.

* * *

GPS was truly the best invention of the human race. Too anxious about everything she was doing, meaning running away and not just taking the car, she had forgotten the entire map she had memorized the night before. It was like a fuzzy white-spot in her memory. All she could really concentrate on was the speed she was supposed to be going and making sure she was going at least a few kilometers slower than that. Every now and then a line from a song she was listening to would break her concentration and bring her anxiety down. As soon as she glanced at the GPS and saw how close she was coming to the airport, her anxiety hiked back up. The drive wasn't more than twenty minutes, but it felt like a painfully slow eternity.

The GPA, ever faithful, led her safely to the airport but she had misunderstood the signs and accidently driven up to the pick-up area. Having to double-back, Claire eventually pulled into the parking garage and parked Viv's car somewhere discreet, but amongst cars of mutual luxury. She nestled the silver Jaguar between a red Cadillac and dark blue BMW. She turned the car off. Gripping the steering wheel, she leaned forward and gasped for air. She couldn't believe it worked! Heaving, she suppressed a smile with the sobering truth that her plan was not complete. She still had to get her ticket, get on her flight and that flight get off the ground before Nicolae got word she wasn't at the estate.

Snapping to attention, Claire popped open the trunk then stuffed the keys into the glove compartment. She triple, quadruple-checked the contents of her purse. Stepping from the car, she pressed "Lock" on the driver's side door then shut it with a flick of her hand. Thankfully, no one was around as she clicked her way to the trunk and pulled out her bags. Samsonite would blend in with the visage she was trying to achieve and once more, she shouldered a few bags and walked toward the airport entrance.

Her luck continued in that not many people were at the airport. Rather, not as many people as the numbers that crowded Heathrow. Cluj's airport had limited numbers of most big-name airlines. Scanning for a second, Claire hissed that there weren't computerized kiosks for Wizz Air anywhere for her to use. She hadn't calculated for that. There were some for United and Delta, but none for the one she needed that she could see. Tense, she sidled up to one of the windows and smiled at the man behind the counter. His English was rough, but passable, and after short sentences, she checked into her flight. She watched his face for any signs that he recognized her, but he seemed already ready to leave his job for the day that he merely handed her the boarding pass and asked for the bags she planned on checking. Once those were paid for, he yawned and wished her a good day and happy travels. Smiling back, she nodded once then made her way to security. Geeze, she took her father's private planes for granted.

Her stomach muscles were so tense, she thought she would throw up. As she approached security, the room began to swim together and her knees buckled a little. A guard moved forward and gripped her upright, but when she pitched herself over the nearest trashcan, they rushed her through check-points. Again, there seemed to be a blanket of distorted perception over these people. They looked at her, full in the face without a hint of recognition or acknowledgement. Recovering her strength, Claire moved from security to one of the escalators. She thought about all she had done so far and smiled.

The credit card in her purse made her smile droop. She had used it to buy the ticket and check her bags, but she couldn't take it with her. Panicking, she pulled the card from her pocket and wearily approached one of the wandering police officers. Keeping her sunglasses on and scarf in place, her held the card out to him and explain how she had found it on the floor in the ladies room. Seemingly overcome by her good Samaritan action, he took the card and told her, in broken English, that he would take care of it. Tipping his hat at her, he too wished her a safe trip and walked away. Disaster averted, she made her way to her gate.

Always one to be five minutes late rather than early, Claire planned everything (distractions included) so that she had at least thirty minutes to wait at the gate. A few hitches in her plan, plus the slower pace she used to drive, gave her fifteen minutes to wait at her gate. Once she was boarded and secure in her seat, heart still frantically thundering in its chamber, she texted Nicolae. Her fingers were so shaky, she could barely read what she had written. Trying to keep the message cryptic enough to leave him guessing, she retyped the message three times. Each key she pressed was shakier than the last. In the end, she managed to type: _**Keys in glove compartment. Spare key needed. MC in Lost and Found.**_

Honestly, it looked like it could have been a text to anyone. She hoped that is what he would think until he got home and began to put the pieces together. As it was, he didn't text back and that told her he was too busy, or out of reach of his phone. His phone was probably on silent anyway, since he didn't want to be disturbed. Wherever his phone was, she turned hers off as the stewardess swept by each aisle to double-check that purses were tucked away and overhead bins were securely shut. Wedged into a window seat, Claire removed the scarf from her head and looped it around her neck. The person beside her was too invested in their reading to give two hoots and a holler about who was sitting beside them. The seats across were filled with a chatty couple and those to the front and back were equally distracted. She felt safe. She only felt secure once the plane was in the air.

* * *

Landing in London was the best feeling in the world! She took her time getting off the plane; fake distracting herself so that she was the last person to actually leave. The flight had been okay, but in her state of anxiety, she had thrown up twice. She was glad to be on familiar, solid ground again. Turning on her phone, she found no text messages from Nicolae. This could mean a multitude of things from he didn't know yet to he was already on a private jet bound for England. She didn't let it get to her though. She was safe.

Again, she took her time getting her things. She texted her best friend, Avery, to come pick her up from the airport. The girl called, utterly confused about why she was even at Heathrow when she was supposed to be in Romania. Claire, tired from her flight and mentally exhausted said she would explain later but needed someone to pick her up and a place to crash for the night. Claire didn't want to go home just yet…just in case Nicolae really was on his way and showed up tomorrow morning. Her stomach muscles clenched viciously as her mind created awful scenarios of what his anger would do. For some reason, though she had never seen him do it, she pictured him using his hands.

* * *

Twenty minutes after hanging up with her, Claire was picked up by Avery and her older brother, Stewart. She had known Avery for years and trusted the girl…to an extent. Avery's father was wealthy and her mother was the descendant of some noble somebody. They lived in Chelsea…a nice, spacious home. The entire way to said home, Claire explained why she was so suddenly back in London. Avery drank it up like a cold glass of water, resolutely agreeing with Claire's decision.

"You can stay with us as long as you like," she piped from the front seat once she finally turned around. The blonde curls bobbed as she nodded in agreement with herself.

"Mom and dad are in France," Stewart explained, "But you know they won't care either."

"Thanks, I appreciate it," Claire finally noticed how bad the knots in her back and shoulders were from the toll of the day. The day that wasn't even other yet.

"So, does he know you're gone? I mean, did you leave him a real nasty note or something?" Avery's head tilted, her own mental images conjuring themselves.

"No. I sent him a cryptic text message telling him where the keys to her car were. I didn't want to take the chance that he could contact someone at the airport and have me hauled off the flight."

"You think he's capable of that?" she saw Stewart's eyebrow lift in the rearview mirror.

"I don't put anything past a man like that."

"Weird. He sounds…intense," Avery leaned back.

"No, he sounds crazy," her brother corrected her. "I mean, is he? Is he crazy?"

"I don't know, honestly. I just know there are many people who would do anything for him."

"I wonder how he'll react when he finds out…" Avery's cliffhanger statement silence all three of them for the rest of the trip.

* * *

Angry. That's how Nicolae had reacted when he found out. It was around five in the evening when Claire's cell phone showed that Nicolae was calling. She didn't answer it at first, too paralyzed with an indescribable fear. He didn't stop calling, though. Left with no choice, Claire hit the answer button and stared down at the phone. He was waiting until he heard her breathing. She lifted the phone, hesitantly, to her ear. She exhaled into the phone and all hell broke loose.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?!" she had to hold the phone away from her ear, he was yelling so loud.

Claire took a deep breath and brought the phone back so she could speak, "I did everyone a favor, that's all."

"How dare you…!" his volume came down, but only just barely. He was to the point of such anger that he couldn't complete his sentences.

"Worried about press or something?" for having a heart racing right now, Claire was surprised by the apathy and confidence in her voice.

"You're the one who ought to be worried," the sudden icy drop in his voice sent a chill up her spine.

Claire looked at the mirror on the wall across from her, watching her own eyes narrow. She wasn't going to be threatened by a man thousands of miles away, many countries away, "Threatening me?"

There was a low, dark chuckle from the other end, "Oh, no…never. That would be _wrong_. I'm simply _educating_ you, as I offered to do."

"You don't scare me, Nicolae."

"Not yet."

The line went dead after that. Claire swallowed the lump building in her throat. She felt her heart pounding against her chest as she lowered the hand that held the phone. The same tension that plagued her stomach in the airport returned and all she could do was pitch forward. She heaved in breath after breath, trying her best to push away anxiety-inspired scenarios relating to her impending doom.

* * *

Nicolae Carpathia had been in a meeting with a few of his patrons. Jonathan Stonagal had been present by video conference. The old man liked to be kept updated on this well-organized, structured attempt to take the presidency. On the outside Nicolae was pushing the needs of his constituents within the House of Commons, when in reality he was planning the downfall of Romania's current presidency.

Toward the middle of the meeting, he received simultaneous text messages. Never one to allow noise to disturb his agenda, Nicolae had left the phone on silent and kept it sitting just beneath his wireless tablet. He had been looking at schematics displayed on the tablet and listening to the experts explain them when his phone lit up twice. The first text message was from Claire. That provoked his curiosity and he had been about to check the message when one from Viv popped up.

Not particularly interested in Viv's needs or concerns, he ignored the message and with a flick of his finger, changed the tablet page to continue absorbing the meandering conversation. This was boring, but necessary. In the end, he didn't get to check the messages until the meeting ended an hour later. By that time, he had almost forgotten they had even been sent until Leon gave him a look to further antagonize his curiosity. Leon was looking down at his phone, confounded, then back at Nicolae as if waiting for some grand explanation. Nicolae heard himself make a sound of discontent and he pulled his phone up from his jacket pocket. Again, he ignored Viv's message in exchange for Claire's.

_**Keys in glove compartment. Spare key needed. MC in Lost and Found.**_

He cocked his head to one side, equally confused by the surreally cryptic message. Had this even been intended for him? Was the girl so addled she typed in the wrong name? That couldn't be right. Claire may have been a mystery in many aspects, but her stereotypical-teenager technological skills were apparent. Left to her own devices, the girl could text, Facebook and compose a ten page research paper all at the same time, no difficulty attached. No, she had meant to send that to him. But why…?

Glove compartment meant a car of some sort. Spare key…Nicolae had no need for spare keys with his drivers handy. He didn't even indulge in driving himself for entertainment's sake. No one but Viv had a…! Nicolae felt his stomach drop as he scanned back to Viv's message. It was far less enigmatic and contained only two words. Three, if you counted the contraction.

_**She's gone!**_

The drive back to the estate was not a fun one, for anyone involved. Abandoning his original plans for lunch with prospective patrons and loyalists, Nicolae had stormed from the conference room and did not stop until he reached his ride. Leon clambered, flustered, behind him but Nicolae was seeing too much red to care. She wasn't…she couldn't have! No, the girl was simply playing a prank gone wrong…a prank that was neither funny nor appropriate. She would pay for this with her flesh and blood this time.

Nicolae hadn't even waited for the car to fully stop before he was throwing the door open with such force, the window cracked. Viv had enough presence of mind to open the door before he got to it. He didn't even hear the words coming from her mouth as he mounted the stairs and stormed to her room. Flinging the door open, he ransacked the place but found nothing of hers that was valuable, and therefore, proof she was still with them.

"Where is she?!" he roared, practically kicking each and every room door open while Viv and Leon skittered behind him. He felt their fear, unnerved by his sudden explosive temper but he didn't care as he spun to stare at them, "Well?!"

"W-we aren't sure yet," Viv squeaked. "I came back from the lunch and she was gone. She and the-" Viv paused, sucking in a breath.

"The what?" Nicolae pressed, temper hovering somewhere between ire and rage. He had come down from the fury shown in Claire's room, but he wasn't incapable of returning.

Leon stepped in since Viv seemed ashamed of something, "The car is gone as well."

"The car? What car?"

"Ms. Ivins' Jaguar. It seems to be missing from the garage."

Nicolae had felt a vein twinge in his neck, the muscles tensing and his temperature rising. Clever girl…she was now a repeat offender but this time, she had gotten away with it. No damage done save for a ruined coup conference.

"And where did she go?" he strained not to yell.

"She stole one of my credit cards…" Viv whispered.

That didn't answer his question. Nicolae had felt his teeth clench to keep from snapping the woman in two. He could now chuck larceny onto Claire's record below grand theft auto and driving without a license.

"That does _not _tell me where she is."

"I checked my account…seems _someone_ used my MasterCard to buy a plane ticket to London."

He stared at them then pulled his cell phone back out to reread the message. _**Keys in glove compartment. Spare key needed. MC in Lost and Found.**_ Now it all made sense. She had stolen the car and left it at the airport with the keys in the glove compartment so she wouldn't have been caught with them if her things were searched. MC was obviously the MasterCard of Viv's but Nicolae had been more than sure Cluj's airport contained no lost and found. What he had known was that Claire had left the credit card instead of keeping it with her. Again, probably a security measure to cover her tracks. He would be thoroughly interested to hear how she accomplished all of this without anyone recognizing her. Were he not pivoting between two hot levels of anger, he would have found this more than impressive. She was too clever for her own good.

"How did she even get off the grounds?!" he snapped at them and they winced. He moved back down the corridor, his eyes on the stairs. "What am I even paying security for if they let a teenager waltz off the property in an eighty-five thousand dollar car?!"

"Apparently there was a bit of traffic off the grounds once we three had left earlier today. Most went on lunch breaks. The guard said he had glanced up and seen a silver car, assumed it was one of the ones the maids drive and let her through without double checking."

"Wonderful!" his voice dripped sarcasm. "I want him fired! In fact, I want each staff member who was supposed to stay back and watch her to be fired!"

"Sir, I don't think any of them imagined she would be capable of such a heist…" Leon was a little too quick to jump to others' defenses today. Nicolae hadn't liked it.

His white-knuckled fingers threatened to rip off the wooden ornament ending the top of the bannister. He looked back at the two idiot creatures to his side.

"That is precisely your problem! Everyone here, save for me, fails to imagine the great depths of Clarissa's conniving and resourceful mind."

Viv had been right about her. Claire was a burgeoning monster…but not an untamable one. No, she presented an intoxicating challenge. He would mold her, with his hands, into the epitome of obedience.

* * *

Nicolae's threat shook Claire but that shaken attitude lasted only a few hours. Only long enough before she distracted herself with dinner and clubbing. Though Nicolae knew she was in London, her father did not. And one thing she and Nicolae silently agreed on, countries apart from one another, was the necessity of her father not finding out. Claire didn't want her father returning from Manhattan and she knew Nicolae didn't want the potential withdrawal of his mentor's financial support. So, even though Avery convinced her to attend one of their favorite nighttime haunts, Claire didn't revel in her usual manner.

While no longer rattled, her mind didn't exactly calm down. Her thoughts still whirred with the various ways Nicolae would approach this grand insult. She didn't deny what it was. That would be more insulting. She had broken various laws in then singular pursuit of her own happiness. She had, in ways unbeknownst to her, upended his well-thought out plans and replaced them with dirty chaos. She could only imagine what they had looked like when they found out. How big Viv's eyes had gotten when she found out her credit card was missing…how much larger they grew when she found out her car was gone.

Running her thumb along the rim of her martini glass, Claire let her eyes slid closed and her shoulders relax into the soft leather of the VIP booth. Club beats boomed around her ears and the table vibrated from the combination of dancing bodies and pumped-up bass. Strobe lights and multi-colored beams flashed around her, but the only thing Claire focused on was the make-believe color of Nicolae's face when he realized she was gone, out of his grasp. Had he turned white with rage…red with anger? Had he locked himself away in his office or his room? His voice must have broken decibel barrier incongruent with the atmosphere of that mansion. She could picture the trembling of those beneath his feet.

She would have paid money to see the entire scene from start to finish, but she would have to do with what images formed in her brain. She also know she would pay a higher price if Nicolae ever got his hands on her. The cool, sharp taste of vodka pushed those thoughts further and further away. Before she knew it, her muscles were loose and Avery was pulling her out of the club toward their car. They were lucky no one more important was in the club tonight, or paparazzi would have been flashing and the gig would have been up.

* * *

Claire awoke the next day, her head pounding from the night before. She hadn't had that much to drink, or so she assumed. Maybe someone had put something in her drink. Either way, the light was too bright and the room too off-center for her to really get out of bed. Dragging the covers over her head, she snaked her hand out to reach for her phone. Her eyes must have blinked ten times before she focused on the slew of text messages, emails and missed phone calls with voicemails. Her father was not listed among them, but Todd-Cothran's was. That was unusual. He left no message, which was even more unusual. Most of the messages were her cousin demanding to know where she was. Claire groaned. Avery…

Unable to right herself to accomplish anything remotely human, Claire went back to sleep for the rest of the morning. When she awoke, the room was not moving and her head was only uncomfortably humming instead of pounding the alarm. She showered then gathered her things and asked Avery to take her home. She felt compelled to get out of London.

Avery was reluctant to take her back, but enlightened with the knowledge that Claire had recently stolen a car to meet her ends, she gave in. Stewart drove Claire back to the vast estate miles away. Based on the messages left, Erin had only just left for Ireland. She hadn't talked to her cousin in weeks…still bitter that things had turned out so well for her, but not for Claire.

The manor seemed so empty compared to the constant hustling and bustling of Nicolae's home. Stewart, sweet as he was, offered to help her carry her things to her room. He was sweet and searching for something that would never happen, not again at least. A drunken kiss one night had put one too many fantasies into the boy's head, but if she were to have a liaison with someone…Stewart was certainly up there on her list. She did offer him a peck on the cheek with a decline to his offer.

She waited until Stewart's car was out of sight to continue to her room. A few staff members, Charlie included, gave her wide-eyed looks. She had informed _no one_ she was returning and now a flurry of scurrying around her meant they were fixing things up so she would be comfortable. Still not one hundred percent, Claire really intended on relaxing for the remainder of the day and evening. She spent the next hour unpacking her things and placing them in her closet. Some items needed to be washed, or dry-cleaned, and she separated them appropriately. Her rumbling stomach let her know it was dinner time. She had just sat down to eat when she heard, from the front of the manor, a door boom open.

"Where is she?!"


	6. To The Moon and Back

Chapter 6: To the Moon and Back

"Where is she?!"

Claire's fork and knife were suspended in midair as her heart rate went from zero to one hundred the second she heard his voice. She had been expecting Todd-Cothran, possibly even an overzealous Nicolae but her _**father **_was the very last person she had expected to hear from. He was the last, last, last person on the planet she expected to find out she was home. The tone in his voice was different and beyond any level of anger she had ever heard from him. That anger made her immediately think strategically.

She set the utensils down as quietly as possible. She didn't want a single noise giving away where exactly in the house she was located. She knew the butlers or maids would give it away to avoid his anger, so if she could beat him upstairs, she would. She heard Charlie's voice, muffled from the distance, and knew he was coming to her defense. Ignoring her hunger, she made way to the staff staircase that led from the kitchen to the second story set of bedrooms. She wouldn't let Charlie's work go up in smoke. The thundering of footsteps coming close made her pelt up the stairs.

It was a ridiculous antelope chase between the two of them. She had narrowly missed him storming into the room, only to trip on one stair. He was right behind her by then but that hardly stopped her from flooring it until she was slamming and locking her door behind her. That didn't deter her father, like it usually did. No, this was a fresh, smoldering rage fueling his actions. The felt the bang of his fist through the wood of the door and immediately backed away.

"You will open this door or I will break it down whether you're in the way or not!" his scream curdled the non-contents of her stomach.

In full flight mode with no immediate coming down, she darted around the room in an effort to find some way to keep from him. If he was willing to break down the main bedroom door, the bathroom would be a poor substitute. That door would be as meaningless and frail as its counterpart. She looked out to her balcony and got the best option available to her. The pounding continued, growing in intensity and she knew he was using his foot at this point. He was really going to break the door down….

"I'm going to drag you out by your hair if you don't open this door, now!"

With that threat in the air, she ripped her sheets off her bed and ran for the balcony, hastily tying one end of the sheet to the railing. Panting for air, afraid for her life, she struggled to make the knot as secure as possible. Her fingers kept fumbling, jolting each time he kicked the door. She heard a vicious snapping of wood and swung her head back to look at the door. She saw his foot kicking in the fresh break and his hand snaking through the hole to open the door. Death closing in made her tighten the knot, secure her escape and give her confidence to save herself.

She stood and swung to the other side of the railing, leaning over a pretty high distance as she watched her father unlatch and kick open the door. They made eye contact just before she gripped the sheet and began her descent to the ground. She heard him howl from above and him running, but she was already out of reach…halfway to freedom. He wrenched the sheet and things changed. She fell the rest of the way and landed on her back against the ground. The reverberations thundered through her body, knocking the wind out of her lungs and leaving her to feel like a fleshy tuning fork for the earth.

The world was spinning as she tried to glance up at her father. His eyes were big and round, caught somewhere between new-born horror and the residual rage that had powered him up until the point she fell. She couldn't focus for much longer than that before she was rolling onto her side, trying to push herself up onto her knees. Reeling and unable to catch her breath, she vomited onto the grass. Somewhere in the distance, she heard her father calling…

* * *

What happened next was a flurry of activity. Charlie and two other butlers came rushing out, probably on her father's word. Claire had been staggering, trying to get away but the slam-impact had been worse than she thought. She felt someone collect her carefully into their arms and carry her back inside. She groaned…a low, miserable sound. She almost cried when they laid her along one of the couches. If something wasn't broken, she was going to be black and blue for a little while after this.

Then her father was rushing into the room…whichever room it was. Now, instead of angry, he seemed panicked and told Charlie to call the doctor. The pain swelling up once more, Claire tilted to one side and threw-up onto the floor. Now she was crying, the body-shaking retching making the pain worse.

"You only have yourself to blame," her father said, gaining some composure he lost when watching her hit the lawn.

She had no comeback for him, no snide remark or back sass that would make him regret what he said. She just cried, hoping nothing was broken or permanently damaged. She hadn't seen blood…then again, she couldn't see her back or what she had thrown up. For all she knew, she had expelled a fine-sized pool of crimson onto the carpet. Her father, through it all, stood there awkwardly attempting to comfort her. Then he would remember why he was there in the first place and recoil from her, even move away. She didn't particularly want his comfort. This continued for an hour until their doctor was led into the room.

* * *

Nothing was broken, but she would be bruised for days. The doctor prescribed moderate pain killers for her to cope through the next week. She was restricted to basic activities only...her father restricted that further to her room, mainly trying to keep her in bed. She got three days to herself, doing nothing beside taking her pain medication and slipping in and out of pill-induced sleep. No dreams, no pain, no yelling…just heavy sleep.

The fourth day after her fall was the worst because they were trying to wean her away from so many of the pills per day. Her back was torture and when she caught a glimpse of it in the bathroom she could see deep-tissue contusions running along her shoulder blades and the back of her ribs. It wasn't pretty, but it wasn't permanent either. The doctor said a week and she would be feeling better, but the bruises would probably be fully gone in two to three weeks.

The fourth day after the fall, still mainly confined to her room, her father confronted her. He was refocused now that he and she were clear of danger. He was still angry and knew Claire, dulled by the Demerol, was no threat to his patience or temper. She was no flight risk.

"What were you thinking?!" he paced the floor at the foot of her bed.

Fuzzy from the Demerol, Claire had blinked numerous times, confused by his question. "I was trying to get away from you."

"Not that! I mean running away! Hopping a flight from Romania to London! What were you thinking?" he stopped pacing to stare at her. He wanted a really good explanation. Too bad she was too doped up to really give him one.

"I was thinking I needed to get away," _Um…duh, dad._ She thought, almost giggling to herself.

"What would compel you to leave somewhere you were safe?! Somewhere you were _supposed _to be?!"

The growing anger only provoked hers. He didn't have a clue what she had been through while in Romania, but if he had, he wouldn't hardly be calling Nicolae's home _safe_. "They didn't want me there…I don't want to be somewhere where I'm not _wanted_." She glared at him, pointedly.

Jonathan Stonagal froze where he was. Not from shock, so much as from contemplation. He was choosing his words carefully, "And what led you to believe you weren't wanted there?"

"Because I overheard Viv Ivins calling me a monster," Claire felt herself snarl, bare her teeth. The prescription may dull the pain, but not her temper…not her memory.

Now _that_ shocked her father. They might not have the _best_ relationship in the world and yes, he had recently threatened to drag her by her hair, but he never would. He was caring for her the best he knew how to do given his age and demands. But someone _insulting_ his child was a personal offense. That was insulting _him_, and he wouldn't stand for that. He leaned forward and curled his fingers around the railing of the baseboard of her bed. His fingers drummed like hers did when considering the best course of action.

"You know, for a fact, that she was talking about you and not someone else? You know Nicolae has…_women_ friends."

Claire snickered, "Yes, I know his avarice for nightly, female companionship. But," she became serious again and moved to make herself more comfortable, "I listened to their whole conversation. She called _me _monster. None of them wanted me there! The only reason he toted me to Cluj was because _you_ told him to!"

"I…I didn't know it would be that way. I thought that was the best place for you. I was _trying_, Clarissa but you don't make it easy!"

She grimaced. Back to square one, it seemed…her fault, "So this is all because of me? You agree with them that I'm some sort of monster child?"

"No!" he snapped and she stilled. "You're no monster, Claire. You are _incredibly difficult_ but that's because you choose to be."

"I wonder why…" she looked away, at all the things he had bought her to keep her distracted. There were more things than pictures. More material than emotional connections between the two of them.

Her father moved to the side of her bed and sat beside her, awkward feeling and awkward looking at his attempt with paternal affection. "I know I work a lot, Claire, but if I didn't then I couldn't afford to give you the life you have. I have made sacrifices, but I have done my best to put your needs as a priority. You have never wanted for anything, have you?"

She couldn't lie and say "Yes" because they had just grown to a point where she didn't really want his affection or nurturing. She sought it in other places, which wasn't ideal all the time. She closed her eyes, "No, I guess I haven't."

"We're too much alike, you and I. Same kind of explosive temper and I know having a much older father hasn't been easy for you. But we've made it work. It needs to be better, though. You can't keep behaving so impulsively. It will put you in danger and that is the last thing I want."

She slid her eyes open to look at him, for some reason on the brink of crying. He seemed alarmed and looked frantically for a tissue. Finding none, he took out his handkerchief and clumsily blotted stray tears away. The attempt was appreciated. Claire looked down at her lap, silent for some time.

"What's wrong, Claire?"

She pondered on whether or not to tell him what else has been said. Sucking a breath, she looked back up at her father, "Nicolae had said he should have gotten rid of me. Viv said he should have had me killed and that you wouldn't have cared because 'a problem _eliminated_ is no different from a problem solved'," Claire imitated Viv's voice and tone perfectly and just stared at her father. "So, I'll ask you again…Am I really that awful that you wouldn't care if I was dead or not?"

Ripe fury brewed in her father's eyes as he gripped her hand and slowly moved from the bed. He didn't break contact until he was done slowly emphasizing his words. "I have _never _wanted you harmed, Clarissa and there is no way in the world I would not care about something happening to you. I may show my affection differently, but I would _never_ let something intentionally happen to you, if I can help it."

He locked eyes with her, squeezing her hand as fresh tears fell. This time, he was sure about how to wipe them away, "I will take care of them."

* * *

Her father remained in England until she was mobile without much pain. Then, he had to return to Manhattan but promised her that she did not have to go back to Romania. There wasn't much of her break left, but he agreed that if she wished to travel, he would fully fund it and make excuse with her school later. However he had resolved the situation with Nicolae and Viv was beyond her. She had heard no screaming into phones or intensity of that sort, so she had no idea what he had done to "take care" of them and their words. She only trusted that he had done as he said he would.

Instead of traveling, Claire remained at her home. She had done enough traveling, though not for leisure, to leave her missing the peace of the estate. Her father had left an open invitation to join him in Manhattan and she might take him up on that offer. As it stood, she was still confused how he had found out she was there in the first place. Neither she, nor Nicolae, could have afforded her father finding out about her flight and yet, as the very last person that needed to know, he was one of the first to find out. That would not bode well for Nicolae in a different way that it hadn't bode well for her.

Regardless of how he had found out, he had and now the storm was passed and Claire was free to enjoy herself in London or Manhattan. Both presented opportunities at favorite evening pastime: clubbing. With its drinking restrictions, the US was less favored by her but there were other things to do that she had never done…shopping, the 9/11 Memorial, the UN. All the touristy destinations she had never been to during the few visits she had made to New York City. That would also mean spending more time with her father and even after the affection they had shared days before, neither of them was quite ready to take the larger leap into really incorporating that affection in a change in their relationship.

Homeostatic. They resisted change as much as possible. And for that reason, she chose to stay closer to London and enjoy the social scene she had spent years shaping. Avery seemed to enjoy the prospect of slam packing each night with some sort of party or outing…club, after club, after club.

More than she liked, Claire came home swaying happily and laughing. More than she liked, she woke up with a pounding headache. Luckily, leftover Demerol seemed to do the trick. She was nursing one of these headaches off when her phone buzzed beside her. Sipping grapefruit juice and lounging on her bed, she answered the phone with a lazy flick of her finger.

"Hello?" she hadn't even bothered to see who was calling. The pain pill was killing her headache, making her hungry and lulling her to sleep all at once.

"I am curious…What exactly did you tell your father? What sort of nonsense are you spouting?" Nicolae's voice was smooth, remarkably calm.

"I'm not generally prone to spouting of any kind, nonsense or otherwise," her voice was soft, demure and slow. He picked up on that.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. Headache."

"Hm…What did you _tell_ him?"

"I told exactly that blue haired bitch had said," Nope. No bitterness there. "And to a lesser degree, what you had said."

"And when did we ever say these things to you?" He was rooting around very well, getting to the main point of things as leisurely as he liked.

"I think we both know you didn't say them _to _me. I overheard you all talking a few days after that debacle at Sergei's uncle's home. You're lucky I didn't tell him about _that_."

He made a very unhappy noise, "You couldn't have separated what we said from the context _in which_ they were said? Didn't realize how angry we were?"

"You had no right to be angry at me, it wasn't my fault."

Frustrated. There was a frustrated sound this time and she realized he was trying so hard to keep his composure, lest she run off to her father again. "_Perhaps_ what Ms. Ivins said was inappropriate, too strong and without thought, but I do not regret what I said."

"I didn't expect you to. You come across as rather apathetic about other people's concerns," she shrugged, even though he wasn't there to watch.

Now he was silent for a long stretch. She was certainly pushing buttons today! "Were you better mannered and more appreciative of what I was trying to do, you wouldn't be so difficult a girl to get along with."

"Sometimes personalities don't mesh."

"Sometimes people are too stubborn for their own good."

"You shouldn't talk about yourself that way."

"You enjoy this, don't you? Agitating people?"

She smirked, "It certainly has its perks."

"In all seriousness, though, had you been more willing, things would not have ended up the way they did and you know it."

"Neither here nor there at this point, you know."

"Maybe, but you have to admit that when you were less resistant, more open to what I was trying to do…you enjoyed yourself. If you hadn't you wouldn't have kept my gifts," now he was the one smirking, she knew it.

"They were shiny and pretty."

"And you enjoyed receiving them. You also enjoyed it when we were visiting venues or having dinner out."

"I explicitly remember Viv not being there for any of those things…"

"You two don't like each other much. Did you even _try _to get to know her?"

"She didn't exactly foster that desire."

"So, if she were out of the picture…You would be willing to try this again?"

"Try what again? Schools starting up soon, not enough time to try anything again."

"In the future then. We will try this again. I stand by what I said…you're suited to being on the arm of power."

"Good to know, if I were interested in that. Right now, I'm interested in being a regular teenager."

* * *

Claire would never be a regular teenager. She knew, after that sentence had hung in space and time that nothing about her would be remotely normal. In the instant the words left her mouth, she could feel something shift…something change forever and she wasn't sure if she was alright with that. He hadn't said anything to counter her beyond what she already knew, that her father's status prevented her from being "regular".

Perhaps she didn't want to be regular. She pondered on that for quite a few days. She wasn't even sure what regular looked like since no one she knew could be considered such. All her friends were children of wealthy parents who enjoyed the finest things in life and created ostentatious amounts of drama. Whatever she had meant when she said that to Nicolae was now dissolving more into a fact that she had really just not wanted to talk to him any longer than that. Since then, he had called her twice and twice, she ignored his calls. Rude, maybe, but she didn't see the point in communicating with someone who she wouldn't be connected to much longer.

She felt her personality shifting during those contemplative days. She felt a desire to be connected, but disconnected all at the same time. Nicolae was buzzing her phone too much and her father's offer for Manhattan hung above her. The world was open to her, creation welcoming and she wanted to experience it all. Avery seemed to have the perfect solution and at the dusk of one night, she was driving with Avery into the heart of London.

London seemed more abuzz than usual, but she didn't question it as Avery buzzed more about the party they would be attending. Avery seemed alight with energy. She kept alternating between sudden bursts of excited chatter and squeezing Claire's hand in expectation. This party must be something special to elicit such reactions. Claire didn't know what to expect until her foot crossed the threshold. The smell of lavender incense filled the air and there was haziness when looking around the lavish loft-suite of this friend of a friend of a friend.

This was not the atmosphere she was expecting. She all of a sudden felt too dressed for the occasion when a woman walked toward them wearing what looked like a Romanesque toga. Thin layers of flowing material, combined with the dark waves of her hair and energy of the place, made her seem ethereal. Claire barely made out the woman's name, Adrienne, as she bent to remove Claire's shoes. Every muscle in her body tensed when her hand, soft and warm, rested on her ankle to ease her foot from the pump she had stuffed it into. Adrienne did the same for her other foot then stayed kneeled down on the pads of her feet with knees splayed, just staring up at Claire with an excited smile.

Somewhere in the removal of shoes, Avery had dashed off toward the center of this gathering. Adrienne just stayed lowered before Claire. Her eyes were studying Claire for some unknown purpose and she could feel the woman's excitement growing as she pushed herself back into a standing position. Adrienne's fingers grazed Claire's exposed midriff. Now Claire was on the alert and she knew something was wrong with this woman. Removing her shoes and touching her ankles was one thing, touching her lower stomach, exposed or not, was entirely another.

"You're exposed and yet confined," Adrienne had the wispy voice that went along with her attire.

"I thought we were going to a rave, not a…whatever this is," Claire waved a hand for emphasis.

Adrienne smirked. It was the oddest smirk Claire could place for a person. Seemed carnal…animalistic and she wasn't sure she wanted to know what was on the other side of that smirk. Adrienne took Claire's hand in both of hers and gave it a squeeze. Not a gentle one either.

"This is transcendence," the wispy voice told her and while still squeezing the hand, led her off to one of the rooms. Previous experience told Claire not to follow strangers into strange rooms.

"Where are we going?" Claire resisted but Adrienne was stronger than her waify appearance let on.

Adrienne, genuinely perplexed, looked back at Claire. Her eyes scanned up and down, the hand came out toward her abdomen again. Claire caught her hand and squeezed, every muscle so tense it was painful. Adrienne smirked again. Unsettling.

"To the womb of all things…to epiphany."

And apparently to a bedroom. Claire would have been more frightened had replica outfits to Adrienne's not strewn the bed there. Freelance photography, blown up to large sizes, framed the walls. Adrienne swept up a dark purple toga and handed it to Claire before leaving the room. Glancing around, she didn't see any clothes resembling Avery's and hoped she wasn't just prancing around naked. Claire could see why Avery had been so excited, though. She had heard of these kind of parties…reminiscent of 1960s expansion-of-knowledge get-togethers, but for the very wealthy.

Adrienne waited outside the room for Claire, seemingly upset that the required apparel covered the skin she had enjoyed exposed. Taking Claire's hand once more, she led her to a central room where everyone else was. She recognized few people besides Avery and if she did recognize them, they seemed equally embarrassed to be here and did not make long eye-contact with Claire. The others seemed like regulars and, unlike their hostess, were rocking and chattering and bubbling with anticipation for their treat.

Claire hadn't needed to see the sugar cubes in the middle of the settling circle of people to know what they were going to be doing. Adrienne's disconnect with reality spelled it out with three simple letters: LSD. Adrienne led Claire to the circle and, continuing with her pattern of touching, placed both hands on Claire's shoulders to ease her down into her section of the circle. Avery was bubbling over, but not a part of the circle. Adrienne lowered herself beside Claire and reached out for the tray.

"Let us explore the cosmos together," Adrienne picked up the platter just as someone, somewhere turned on music Claire had only heard in the rooms of masseurs. Pooled with the incense and togas, the music was getting to her more than the pre-game shots she and Avery had taken.

People seemed to be humming, swaying to the music and desperate for their hallucinogen. Claire only became more and more anxious. Adrienne was saying something, singing something maybe, but Claire could only focus on how crazed Avery look. Claire suddenly realized this was not Avery's first time doing this and whatever had happened to her while tripping times prior, she was craving now.

She felt a hand on her knee and Claire zapped her eyes to Adrienne. She had begun passing the tray in such a manner that made Claire the last to receive. Adrienne's hand was massaging Claire's knee and Claire imagined that the music playing was straight from the spa Adrienne worked at, or owned.

"Bad mind, bad trip," Adrienne put bluntly and Claire got the hint.

By the time the plate got to her, there were two sugar cubes left. Unsure if she really should, Claire hesitated in taking one. Ever the good hostess, Adrienne took the plate from her hand and both sugar cubes from the plate. Opening her mouth, in what Claire could only describe as seductively, Adrienne rested the sugar cube on her tongue then closed her mouth. Claire's mouth unintentionally clenched closed and Adrienne took it upon herself to get it open. She wasn't forceful, but Clarissa Stonagal does not appreciate people stroking the skin beneath her chin, an inappropriate coaxing gesture. To make it stop, Claire opened her mouth and Adrienne rested the sugar cube on her tongue. Claire shut her mouth and that was that.

* * *

Epiphany was not the word. Once the trip began, Clarissa felt the stars themselves in her veins. Unlike many of her counterparts, Claire did not verbalize the things she was experiencing. She saw spinning constellations and swirling galaxies. She saw herself glowing and felt like she was flowing underwater. Adrienne became far more otherworldly than before the trip started. She was a blur of heat, tangible passion and lust. Even tripping, though, Claire held her boundaries.

She felt like an empress…ancient, full of wisdom and power. She saw herself, many parts of a whole she had never considered before. Toward the end, she touched her future and bathed in the umbra's cradle. Every synapse was going off to the height of imagination. The purple of her toga tasted like blackberry wine and its texture smelled of fresh ocean air. Her hands explored curves of flesh and music in the air around her. The music…oh, the music had come alive and she composed with her fingers all the melodies that had ever been. It was around that time that she felt Avery grab her up and lead her away. Somewhere in the distance of space, she heard Adrienne shrieking.

* * *

Never touchy feely, Claire was snuggled up against Avery like a cat. She could hear Avery's heart throbbing in her chest, threatening to break out of her ribcage. Too far into the cosmos to grasp why, or conversation, Claire stayed nestled against the chest of her friend. On Avery's end, the girl's arms were wrapped so tightly around Claire that had she been in a better state of mind, Claire would swear she would break. Something amiss would be detailed tomorrow morning for sure.

The drive was long and somewhere between leaving London and rolling down the winding driveway to the estate, Claire began to descend to Earth and reality. She heard herself moaning, objecting as she moved out of the car and into her home. She noticed another car in the circular driveway but wasn't Mathematically inclined enough to put two and two to make anything but blue. Avery didn't seem that way, either, as they breezed for the stairs.

"Where have you been?" the voice, baritone, was cold and Claire tasted ice. Avery yipped and Claire turned on the stair, leaning slightly over the railing to smirk.

"To the moon and back," Claire purred at Nicolae. His face contorted from shock.

"What's wrong with you?!" he paused, voice filling with disgust, "What're you _wearing_?"

"Nothing's wrong…everything's _so _good," Claire began to laugh.

The ground was out from under her at that point. Taking charge, Nicolae had swept her up into his arms and was moving up the stairs, determined. Claire only continued laughing. She felt tears down her cheeks, but she wasn't laughing that hard. The bad end of the trip had come, the mourning that the experience was over and the mundane was settling back in. In a snap, Claire went from jubilation to despair. She was crying. Clarissa Anne Marie Stonagal never cried.

* * *

Unlike alcohol, LSD didn't leave Claire with a pounding inside her skull. She wasn't nauseated, only vastly confused by how she went from the middle of Adrienne's loft to being in her bed. Purple toga was still on, but the smell of lavender was replaced by the aroma of lunch. Checking her clock, Claire blanched when 3:37 glared back at her. Groaning, she slid from bed and showered. Avery had been somewhere and now she wasn't.

In the kitchen, Claire found an unexpected guest waiting for her. Her stomach knotted as Nicolae almost jumped up from the table. He seemed legitimately concerned as he looked at her. Concern was replaced by anger.

"What were you thinking?!"

That was the popular question to ask her these days. Claire sucked her lips in and glanced down. She honestly hadn't been thinking. If she had tried, she could have just left and come back home, but she didn't. She shrugged and jumped when he smacked the table.

"Don't just shrug, answer me!"

Swallowing, Claire answered carefully, "I thought Avery was taking me to a rave, not a…whatever that was." Her eyes stared into space.

He gripped her shoulders, pressed the palms of his hands into them and shook her hard, emphatically with his words. "Do you realize what could have happened?"

Back to her normal self, touching was off limits and she grasped his wrists to pry his hands away. He didn't budge as they stared hard at one another. "I'm fine…The trip wasn't a bad one."

She could see it in his face. The _Oh, my God_ look in his eyes where he didn't know whether to laugh his pants off or continued to be concerned. The moment where he knew she had not faked her disposition last night. His hands relaxed, but did not leave her shoulders.

Instead of laughing or concern, Nicolae opted for left field and inquired, "And what, pray tell, did you see on your _trip_?"

Claire closed her eyes and smiled, head going back, "Stars, galaxies, music and sex. I shined like a thousand suns and waltzed with destiny. I gazed through the looking glass."

That cracked him up. When she opened her eyes, his were bearing into her. They seemed as sparked as Avery's had been the night prior.

"Hmph…A little Alice in Wonderland, are we? A thousand suns? Stars and galaxies…" he shook his head. Smiling, he squeezed her shoulders, "You saw sex?"

Claire blushed, releasing his wrist and wriggling beneath his hands, "Well, not necessarily sex proper but I saw lust and passion."

"You can't see those things," his eyebrows drew together.

"You can't see music either, but I did," Claire smirked at him.

"You really shouldn't do drugs," his voice was stern again.

"Next time, I'll just say 'No,' how about that?"

The idea of her encountering a second trip did not boil over well, "I don't like the you that's on drugs."

"You don't like the me that's not on drugs, either." Bam!

Eyes widening a touch, he slid his hands down to her elbows. "I told you I like you just fine. I'm not a fan of your stubbornness or semi-delinquent ways."

"You like the fake, obedient me then? You like mindless, opinionless sycophants?" she was irked. And hungry.

"Twenty points for using the big word. And to a certain extent, yes, I enjoy you when you are more willing to follow direction than constantly fighting it. However, a robotic you would be boring. I like your passion, I like your energy. Sometimes, I enjoy arguing with you," that was news to her.

"Uh…what? That makes zero sense," she broke free from his grasp and grabbed a plate of food.

"I don't enjoy arguing with people, but you're different for some frustrating reason."

She took a seat at the table and looked at him, "I'm guessing you enjoy arguing with me when the subject matter is frivolous in nature."

"Or academic. As you've made clear, you're not stupid."

She stabbed at her pasta and came up with a better question, "Why are you here?"

"Ah, yes!" he moved to take a seat adjacent to her. "I've come to celebrate."

"Celebrate what?"

"You're looking at the new President of Romania."


	7. Bye, Bye, Bye

Chapter 7: Bye, Bye, Bye

Him becoming president was not even in her schema. Honestly, while she had known he was involved in some political movement while she was in Romania, she hadn't bothered to become invested enough in her stay to figure out what that movement was about. Presidency hadn't been tossed around while she was there, but she didn't speak Romanian and cared more about keeping her dysgraphic ways a mystery than what office he was stepping into.

As bewildered as she was by his new position, she couldn't piece together the puzzle enough to figure why he had flown himself to London for the sole purpose of celebrating. She didn't care enough to ask questions, however, since a bargain between them had been struck that he would _not _mention to her father about her progression from alcohol to drugs if she indulged him for a few evenings. His idea of indulgence was easy to slake…dinner at posh restaurants and flashes from paparazzi. Every picture taken reminded her that she didn't comprehend how he was becoming so popular.

Finding fifteen minutes to herself, she stretched out on her bed and slid through the half dozen text messages littering her phone. Two were from her father…something about school. Another was from Avery, but the language was so disconnected that she suspected Avery had picked up the trip which left Claire's system. The creaking of her door jostled her and she turned to look at him as he leaned against her doorway. She thought she had closed the door entirely and kicked herself inside for not double-checking. She really was no good about letting people into her personal space…or even wanting them there in the first place. Nicolae, on the other hand, seemed to have no trouble invading space and entered her room as if she had given him express permission to, as if she had begged him to. Her eyes followed him, watched him pluck up her rosary and fight not to sneer at the object. Truly, she half-expected his hand to burst into flame.

"Are you going to bargain your way into the school of your dreams?" he plunked the rosary back into her jewelry case.

As custom dictated, Claire shrugged. School had been as far from her thoughts as the Moon was from Earth. Maybe it had been the tumultuous nature of her father's arrival, or his quick departure that put her scholarly locale in the backseat in terms of important. Her brain scrambled for an answer.

"I haven't even considered school."

"Not surprising, given your propensity for academics," he looked at her.

"My _propensity _for academics cannot be judged by my performance during the _summer_," she immediately corrected him. He didn't say anything about that, just looked at her before sitting on her bed. The feeling of being crowded began pressing on her stomach and chest.

"Are you sure about that? I believe I am in a unique position to make judgment of your academic ability and motivation" his brow rose and they looked at each other.

"Unique in the sense that you saw it for only so many weeks and at subjects I enjoy the least. I am right-brain focused all the way. Calculations, dates and tables of elements make me want to gouge my eyes out."

He chuckled, shook his head and extended his hand to pat her crown. With the easy motion of sitting up, she left his hand hovering above nothingness. He watched her for a moment, studying her like a Rubik's Cube. She knew she made frustrating sense to people…an odd portrait of attractive, alluring qualities with the cold sting of thorns. She looked like any wealthy London flirt but wanted nothing to do with anyone's attentions that hadn't already received expressed permission to be so close to her person. She was a siren, singing a beautiful song with her eyes and luring many to crashes on rocks.

"Why don't you just go to New York? There's a school for the right-brained individual every corner you turn," his hand returned to his lap.

She glanced down at her text messages, her father arguing a similar point while also informing her someone from her present school had asked if she would be returning, "There's nothing in New York that London, Paris or Barcelona couldn't offer to a greater extent. Besides, I didn't exactly pass my classes, so I'm in no position to shop for schools that won't take me as am."

Her brows drew together as she read the second message from her father or her father's secretary, since she was more apt at texting than he. St. Brigit's was sending someone to the estate to talk to him, Claire or both about the upcoming year. The message stressed the importance of this visit and that it should be handled with all respect and decorum but there was no expectation for her to agree to return if she truly did not want to. Her stomach knotted at the idea of the cantankerous Mother Superior looming over her in her own home. The idea of Mother Superior in her home _at all_ was unnerving. She was jumping the gun though, since she didn't even know if it would be that hideous woman who was coming.

A throaty cough brought her back to the uninvited guest of her room. She drew her legs Indian style and looked at him, "You're heading back tomorrow then?"

"Yes. And I presume you are staying here?"

"Yes," she said slowly. "Where else would I be?"

He straightened up and rose from her bed, "Somewhere where you are not so…alone?"

She rested her arms on her knees and stared at him then looked around her room. Vast space filled with anything money could buy her that she wanted. A house of rooms filled with the same. Emotionless, inanimate objects meant to make a statement of power and prestige rather than lived-in comfort and congeniality.

"Worried about me now?" she smirked even though the concept of someone worrying about _her _instead of her _actions _was jarring.

"I've known you long enough for it to build into concern, yes. Aren't _you _worried about constant solidarity?"

"How can one worry about what one has only, ever known? The unknown is far more frightening, trust me."

"Wise and mature statement, but probably the saddest thing I've ever heard you say….given the context of the situation," he turned to leave her room.

She swallowed something that stuck to the inside of her throat. What a hated feeling…a lump in the throat. Was he daring to _pity _her? With well-trained precision, she smothered that momentary emotion of sadness with a newly kindled anger.

"I don't need your pity!" she snapped.

He paused with his hand on the door handle. She could tell he wasn't surprised in her sudden change in temperament, but expecting it and accepting it are two different things. Nicolae Carpathia _never accepted_ being snapped, shrieked, yelled or fussed at. He half-turned his body to look her square in the eyes.

"Who said I was pitying you? I made a point that your statement was sad, if not entirely depressing, for the reason that you would rather maintain your isolation in an emotional and experiential tundra than embrace something new."

She felt her lips tug into a snarl but she said nothing in return. They stared at each other, until he grew bored and left her room. He slammed her door behind him for the final punctuation of his verbal dart. Claire felt her heart pumping in her chest and frowned.

* * *

"What do you know…" she laid back down and stared at the empty space, watching the carmine light of dusk slowly fade to black. How could he understand? She doubted there was a single moment in his life when someone didn't love or want him. It was sickeningly obvious by the Jocastian complex Viv had for him that Nicolae would _always _be adored by at least one person. His rising popularity further confirmed her suspicion that he never had to fight for people's attention. They just gave it to him.

Claire had always had to fight. She hadn't exactly been _expected _when she was born and the fading memory of her mother made it muddy to recall if she was event _wanted_. Regardless of the pseudo-compassionate parting words Jonathan Stonagal left with her, Clarissa knew his world centered on himself and she was a cold, distant planet expected to revolve around his gravitational pull. Existing on the outskirts of a solar system has its perks, but is mainly filled with drawbacks. One of those is the loneliness. Physically, she wasn't alone because of the number of permanent staff working at, or even residing in, the estate. That didn't make them family…it didn't even mean they were nice. Aside from Charlie and his wife, they were errand boys and girls for her father's needs and when she was home, she saw it in their eyes that she was a hindrance.

When she was younger, it had bothered her to the point of tears. She hadn't understood when she was tender what being Jonathan Stonagal's child without her mother meant. She learned, however. Annoyed sighs and frustrated grumblings, like harsh winds and rain, etched her into a princess of thorns and ice. St. Brigit's completed the erosion process by making her vigilant, if not paranoid, and physically capable of defense. No…Nicolae would never know why she preferred being alone to being with others, why she just didn't move to New York. . Being with others never taught her anything warm. Besides…the closer one moves to the sun, the more they get burnt.

* * *

Sounds of doors opening and closing, luggage carts wheeling and car sputtering woke her in the pre-dawn hours of the morning. He was leaving. She pulled herself out of bed and moved to a different room so she could watch from a better vantage point. People came and left the estate all the time. When her father was here, it was a revolving door of people. And she always stood to watch them leave. Whether she was comforted by their departure or merely curious was anyone's guess. She saw the chauffeur standing by the car but no one approached. She moved the curtain a bit to see if he was talking to someone at the door.

"Looking for someone?" she nearly jumped out of her skin and teetered as she turned to look at him, holding her heart from breaching its captivity.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you not to scare a sleepy person?"

The light spilling from the hallway made him an unreadable silhouette. She had a sense he was smirking, taking the usual pleasure in her rattled composure. "Then the sleepy person should be in bed. What are you doing?"

"Watching you go," her voice was feather soft. She crossed her arms and watched him approach. He waxed from the shadows, his sharp features softened by the dying moon and lamp light outside. He stopped a foot in front of her, hands moving to her shoulders then down to her elbows.

"Come with me."

Claire's eyes blinked a few times, her bed calling her with a still soft voice. So persuasive was it that she ignored his hands on her skin for now. It was a generous offer, even if blue-haired harpies laid on the other side of it. She looked at him and smiled, sadly. "Thank you, but I can't."

A frustrated exhale, "I don't see why not."

"Don't worry about me," she held up a finger when he opened his mouth to object. "I'm sorry for snapping at you last night. But, someone from my school is coming to talk to me so I won't be alone and it puts into perspective how little time I have left before the new year starts."

He was still and quiet, withdrawing his hands to cross his arms though he drummed some fingers against his cheek. She crooked a brow, "What's so amusing?"

"Either you must be tired or hell froze over…you never apologize."

"I thought you didn't believe in hell," she yawned, "Whichever it is, you better savor that apology while you can since neither of us will live long enough to hear the next one."

He chuckled and dropped his hands to his pockets, "If you're certain this is what you want."

"I'm not certain this is what I _want_. I just know this is how things will happen." The room was quiet after that as she looked out the window at the car that waited for him. What she _wanted_…Now that was a laughable concept. Money could buy her many things she _desired _but whether she had truly wanted them was another story. Momentary impulses satisfied with the flick of a premium platinum card were not answers to what she _wanted_. Fingers brushed hair behind her ear, so slowly and seductively that the lullaby of her mattress crescendoed. The curtains of her eyes drew closed.

"Poor Cassandra, to see the future and be unable to change a thing about it," he whispered.

She grabbed his wrist and looked back at him, "Your chariot awaits, Achilles."

"And it will keep waiting until I say it's time to leave."

"Presidents shouldn't keep their countries waiting. Besides, whether I can change it or not, I am resigned to my immediate future and no one has anything to worry about."

He nodded, "Very well. Should you change your mind, you have my number."

"And you have a nation to lead."

They stared at each other. One of the many through the revolving door, himself, they had known each other for years. She figured this was their good-bye now that her father's mentoring had paid off to the full extent. No words were needed to express that assumption. That didn't keep him from acting on it, much to her awakened displeasure. He was not a hugger and neither was she, so she was thankfully spared being crushed against his body in a superfluous expression of fleeting emotion. He opted for the expressions with ulterior motives; movements that could be construed multiple ways and left the victim wondering what he was trying to say. Unfortunately for him, his tactic reaped poor results. She never looked into anything beyond what she saw because the minds of others were dirty, dangerous and slippery places.

He took one of her hands and turned the palm toward his face to kiss the middle of it. Slow, surgically precise and warm. His eyes made the point to lock with hers before and after. His thumb replaced his lips as he emphasized his last words, "We will see each other again."

* * *

Claire had gone back to bed after he left and slept until well after the sun had risen. Though the rest of the day focused on preparing for the representative of her school, she found herself running her thumb over his parting gift. And when she found herself doing that, she kicked herself for giving the action more value than it deserved. She would _not _allow him to play her like he did the rest of his toys. Clarissa couldn't afford to be a singular pawn on two people's chess boards.

She distracted herself with playing the piano, fiddling with musical compositions or indulging herself in long-abandoned guilty read. Unsure of when this Catholic visitor was expected to arrive, Claire was hesitant to promise anything to Avery beyond tea time or dinner at the estate. Stewart tagged along for the gossipy sessions colored with escapades and flamboyant fashion offenses. He suffered silently and Claire was left wondering why he didn't hang out with friends of his own. Claire knew he was forced to pilot Avery around when their parents were out of town and incapable of paying a steady driver to handle Avery's hyperactive leap frogging from one place to another, but he looked like a pitiful hound waiting to be put out of his misery while his sister jabbered on and on.

"Oh please," Avery scoffed as she painted another delicate layer of Chick Flick Cherry onto her ring finger, "He _deigns _to drive me here and wait around because he gets to see you!"

Clare froze just as she was about to apply a second round of Casino Royale to her toes. Her lips pursed and she set the O.P.I bottle down. "You know I don't feel that way about your brother, Ave…I mean, he's nice and all-"

Avery cut her off with a raised hand and shaking head, "You don't need to defend yourself to me, Claire. I _know _you don't like him in that way. I mean, why would you when you have that blonde stud?"

Avery's smirk and implication made the palm of her hand burn and her stomach clench with surfeit, "I don't feel that way about _him _either!"

Her best friend was aghast. She nearly spilled the richly tinted lacquer onto Claire's carpet. Waving one hand side to side in the universal gesture of drying one's nails, Avery reached for her overnight bag and produced an open magazine. Dead center in an article all about him was a picture of him _and _her. Given the conditions of Nicolae's agreement not to mention her hallucinogenic experience with her father, she wasn't that surprised to see the picture. What she may not have fully considered was the insinuations these kind of pictures would circulate.

"It's not like that, Avery." Her tone was flat as she plopped the magazine on the floor to resume painting her toes to the perfect shade of purple.

"Then just what _is _it like, missy?" Avery blew on her nails and watched Claire with the arched brows of a Spanish Inquisitor.

"It's nothing! _That_," Clarissa jabbed the picture and hissed, "Is what keeps my father from knowing what kind of party _you _dragged me to. Nothing more, nothing less."

"One, you had fun at that party and two, I didn't make you take the drugs." Avery smirked, refusing to believe she had any hand in Claire's almost descent into full deviancy.

"It doesn't matter. All I'm saying is that, that picture is nothing more than self-preservation. He's gone anyway…finished his business with my father," Claire blew on her toes.

"Aaawww, you sound almost sad about that," Avery chaffed.

Clarissa puckered her lips and ran her tongue along the inside to emphasize how annoyed with the whole discussion she was. Avery's response was a triumphant chortle, "I only bring it up because Stewart was the first one to see it and, I swear," she drew an X over her chest, "he looked like someone had shot him in the heart."

"You didn't need to tell me that, Avery." Claire frowned and screwed the lid tight to the nail polish bottle.

"Yes, I did. You wanted to know why he keeps following me along like some lost sheep. He's hoping his constant presence will light the fire of love between the two of you."

"I know what he wants and it has nothing to do with love," Claire leaned back and looked up from her nails. The icy look on Avery's face was the most unnerving she had seen her friend in a _long _time.

"Stewart may be many things, Claire, but you know he isn't like that! He really cares about you…and it didn't help at all that you kissed him then acted as if nothing happened."

"Because it shouldn't have happened! Look, I like Stewart but it's hard for me to see him as anything besides an older brother. That's why I act the way I do around him. He's one male-bodied person I feel safe around and I don't want that ruined by the messiness of romantic feelings and ideal aspirations of love."

Avery, satisfied with how dry her nails were, reached out to grasp her best friend's hand. Claire tightened the grip a little and took in her friend's words, "Claire, we've known each other since forever, it seems, so please don't take this the wrong way. I know why you hate people getting so close to you but if you don't learn to let them in…you're going to end up alone."

* * *

Avery's words were haunting enough to keep her awake for hours after their speaker had fallen asleep beside her. Many things Avery had said were true. She was the singular person who understood why Claire yanked away from being touch or shrinked herself from crowds. She knew the underlying reasons Claire preferred selective solitude instead of engaging in intimate relationships. And Claire knew, perhaps tearfully acquiesced, her future was one of impending heartache. What she hated, more than that bleak horizon, was that two different people, at two different times, without prior consultation had told her what she fought long and hard to accept.

Clarissa Stonagal would have to change if she hoped for a future warmer than Siberia.

* * *

Days later, Claire was finally graced with St. Brigit's masterful representative. For days, Clarissa had been preparing herself to make specific, fine-tuned points about why it would be better for her to transfer to a local school. The structure of St. Brigit's was too stifling, her creative genius was constantly ignored, and the chief among them: she wasn't Catholic enough to live up to the faith-based expectations of the school.

She had been prepared to go toe-to-toe with a stuffy groupy of the Mother Superior, or even the head honcho herself. What she had not expected, while watching the taxi make its way up the drive, was for Sister Cecil to emerge from the back of the cab. Sister Cecil was the immediate inferior to the Mother Superior, as well as teacher for all things musical and resident choir director. Claire loved her.

She was down the stairs in a matter of seconds and out the door even sooner. The woman hadn't even gotten to put her bags on the porch before pale arms squeezed her. This woman was gentle and perhaps one of the handful of humans on Earth Clarissa could express physical emotion with. Sister Cecil was always in Claire's corner, a constant voucher for her abilities and compliance. Unfortunately for Sister Cecil, her petitions often fell on silent ears.

"I thought I would hosting Mother Francis Benedicta, or at least one of her lackeys," Claire took Sister Cecil's bag, before she could pick it back up, and led her inside.

The woman said nothing as she crossed her hands in front of her while walking, "I regret to inform you that Francis Benedicta is no longer Mother Superior of St. Brigit's."

Claire mounted the stairs in step with Cecil, genuinely surprised to hear the news since she fully expected the woman to reign until death called her elsewhere, "Permission to ask why?"

Their pace slowed to a stop. Claire watched Cecil clench and unclench her hands three times before turning to look at her student, "Truly unexpected circumstances. As you are well aware," she emphasized, "Mother Superior appeared the picture of health. But pictures can be awfully deceiving and so was the case with Benedicta."

Cecil began walking again, leaving Claire bereft of answers and anxious for details. Cryptic skirting around the issue was a tactic Cecil often employed with masterful results. "Forgive me sister, but-" Claire was silence by two of Cecil's fingers.

"Mother," she stated in a corrective tone.

"Pardon?" Claire skipped up the rest of the stairs to stand before Cecil with a look of hopeful curiosity.

"It is Mother Cecil now, Clarissa. As I was saying, Benedicta has passed away of a heart attack about a month ago. It took about that long for me to win the vote and prepare myself for my promotion. I didn't want anyone else to come and speak with you, otherwise someone would have come much sooner to speak with you."

"Sis…_Mother _Cecil, I thank you very much for coming but I am not entirely sure-" she was cut off once more.

"My dear, I hate to interrupt but I am very tired. Could I rest and perhaps we talk tonight over dinner?"

Claire nodded and carried her bags to their best guest room. She left the newly appointed Mother to rest as much as she liked, which turned into a few hours. To bide her time, Claire fiddled around with composing music and playing the piano. That kept her out of the way of maids cleaning and butlers straightening affairs around the home. Charlie poked his head in every half hour to see if she needed anything and was usually sent away with an empty answer. Soon enough her hands were tattooed with the smears of ink and stiff from the constant cracking of knuckles and wrist bones.

"You always create the most beautiful pieces," Cecil's soft voice wafted in from behind her.

"You taught me well," Claire smiled as she swiveled in her seat.

"You weren't hard to teach and would definitely be a huge contribution to the continuing growth of the music program at St. Brigit's."

And she was already going in for the kill. Such a shrewd woman, Mother Cecil, who took every opportunity to get to the heart of the matter in as few words as possible when the context did not include anything musical. Claire rose from the piano and moved to sit beside her mentor.

"Mother Cecil…Believe me when I say I could not be happier that you are now head of St. Brigit's," Cecil's smile was soft, almost maternal, "But believe me, equally, when I tell you how much I don't want to go back."

"I have a good theory of why you wouldn't want to return, but I'm sure you have a well-founded three point plan of explanation. I'm sure you will say it's too structured and your musical accomplishments are appreciated in light of your other academic struggles."

Clarissa glared at the woman, who only chuckled in response, "While those were _certainly _considerations, they pale in comparison the fact that St. Brigit's is a Catholic school and I'm not entirely sure how Catholic I am..."

Mother Cecil was quiet and Claire began to worry she had shocked the woman to the core. She was surprised when the woman cracked a smile. Claire felt her cheek flush since she hardly classified what she said as humorous.

"You feel like you've lost your faith?"

"I wish it were that simple…I wonder if I had faith of my own to begin with."

Mother Cecil closed her eyes and nodded, "There isn't one true believer who hasn't been in that long, dark night," she took Claire's left hand in her own. They were warm and soft, comforting. "You're in that crucible now, child."

"Mother, I-"

"Let God continue to work through you…through your music and your night will become the dawn," she kissed the top of Claire's hand.

* * *

The rest of the evening played out quietly, with sweet reminiscence on the better part of her school years. Dinner was simple, almost rustic, and Mother Cecil went to bed while leaving Claire with few, final words of wisdom. Claire wouldn't find them for a few hours, until the midnight munchies had her tiptoeing from her bed to the kitchen. In elegant writing, developed by the cloistered lifestyle of a nun, Mother Cecil had set a note and small box on the piano.

"The path to our destination is not always a straight one. We go down the wrong road, we get lost, and we turn back. Maybe it doesn't matter which road we embark on. Maybe what matters is that we embark."

"Which saint said that?" Claire asked herself in the disturbing silence of the home.

On making her way back to her room, she bounced the box from one hand to the other. Inside was the crucifix Cecil had worn for years and treated with immaculate care. Other than the quote, there had been no explanation of why Claire was receiving such a gift. She passed Cecil's room, surprised to see a soft light from beneath the door frame. Cecil was far from a fresh-bloomed youth, so Claire doubted she was keeping herself awake at this hour especially since she succumbed to slumber hours before Clarissa. If she was awake, then Claire would take the opportunity to get the answers she desired.

Her knock was respectfully quiet, "Mother Cecil, are you awake?"

No answer came, so she knocked a little louder. The floating knowledge of the last Mother Superior struck down by a surprise heart attack pressured Claire to check on Mother Cecil. Finding the door unlocked was a relief, but it was short lived when she opened the door and found the room empty.

"Mother Cecil…?" the bathroom was dark and door wide open. Panicked, Claire moved for the bed. It looked wrong. Someone had obviously been about to lay their head down, but utterly dissolved in the process of turning the light off. Emptied night clothes had fluttered to the side if the bed. The only evidence that a person had worn them at all was lingering of faint powdery lotion. All the breath went out of Claire's body.


	8. Night of Your Life

A/N: This is such a lovely distraction from graduate school, impending graduation and job hunting. Hope you guys enjoy! Chapter nine will probably be up relatively soon after this one, since there were A LOT of ideas I had for a singular chapter that I realized needed to be broken into two chapters to avoid an absurdly long read.

* * *

Chapter 8: Night of Your Life

Time is a funny thing. Regardless of the truth that it is constant, neither slowing nor speeding, there is also truth that when things are going well and pleasantly, time sprints. And then there are times when circumstances are so awful, so heavy and foul that time crawls like glaciers. This was one of those experiences.

Though she knew she had only been holding her breath for mere seconds, Clarissa's chest felt hot and heavy like she had been holding it for days. The exhale was painful, an accompaniment of stings all up her throat as she pivoted from the empty bed to the open door. She had no idea what was going on. She couldn't comprehend a power strong enough to reap a person from their bed without their clothes, without a struggle…without a noise. All she knew was that adrenaline was seeping into her bloodstream and panic was rising. She stumbled into the hallway, over her own feet no less and crashed into wall like a drunk.

A singular goal inhabited her brain. She had to get downstairs. She had to get Charlie, but her body felt like it was trapped in one of those dreams where no matter how fast it wanted to move, it only went slower. Her coordination was gone with the onset of animal instincts that were caught between flight and freeze. She pinched herself hard to gain control back and darted down the hall toward the back stairway. The house was quiet except for her thundering locomotion. That didn't make any sense. Why wasn't someone else panicking?

She slid a little as her feet hit the kitchen floor but she couldn't stop. She took a sharp right out of the kitchen through a side door that led to the old servant's wing of the house, which had been converted to an apartment-style living quarters for Charlie and his wife. Charlie had worked for her father for longer than Claire could remember, longer than she had been alive and he was trusted absolutely. Charlie and Rose were also the only two servants to hold residence in the house. They were the ones who kept Claire feeling safe at night, regardless of the night watchmen that patrolled every few hours along the perimeter and the electric fence that surrounded the property. They were inside, they kept the _inside _fears away. She skidded to a stop outside Charlie and Rose's door. They would make the fear go away…she knew they would.

Her fist pounded on the door so hard her hand hurt when she stopped. She screamed his name over and over but there was no reply. She stupidly waited for a light to pop on inside the room and gleam from beneath the door but that didn't happen either. She banged with both fists, but knew there was no one on the other side to hear her. Still, she would fight her way inside to confirm her fears because, what else was there to do? Maybe Mother Cecil hadn't just _disappeared_. _Maybe_, her frightful brain whispered, _maybe she went mad and killed them just before locking herself in and taking her own life_.

Absurd though it was it gave her some small sliver of comfort that people were not just vaporizing out of her life. Heaving for breath, Claire stalked the hallways until she found one of many weighty, decorative statuettes. She bobbed it in her hand before lobbing it down against the door handle repeatedly. After about five strokes, the handle plunked to the floor like a poorly amputated limb. She kicked the door three times until a sick crack of wood let her into the dark master bedroom. She hadn't let herself cry because some small part of her heart held onto the hope they were still there…there and deaf to her hysterics. Tears swelled and rained on her cheeks as she stepped closer to the bed.

Eerie silence boomed around the room as she pulled back the covers to reveal two sets of nightclothes, decompressed since the bodies that held them were gone. Charlie's arm had obviously looped around his wife, as the sleeve of his nightshirt rested over Rose's gown. Claire's chest tightened as her mind pictured them there, sleeping soundly in one another's embrace. Her stomach knotted as the emptiness sunk in. Her fingers slid into her hair and tugged as she hit her knees and cried, body pitching back and forth in mourning.

"No! No, no, no! Please…please, come back," she hiccupped. Her hands released her hair and covered her ears as she screamed. She screamed until her throat was raw, her eyes tired and nose covered with a thin film of runny snot.

Yes, the awful truth is that time can sit back whenever it likes and allow suffering to linger. With this truth, Claire found herself much where she had been when she was four and the death of her mother sunk in for the first time. That unjust realization that the person, who was her whole world, was never coming back. There was little difference between that moment and right now except for this tragedy was punctuated with aloneness.

She was alone in the house. Alone to her crying since all other staff had long gone home. Stomach aching, Claire stumbled up from the floor and made her way outside to find _someone_. A patrolman...the guard at the front gate, anyone who might still be on the estate in walking distance but she would be sorely disappointed. Claire found another set of clothes toward the left side of the manor, the life as sucked out of them as an empty balloon without helium.

Her legs pumped as she ran down the long stretch of gravel driveway to the gatekeeper's tiny lodge by the front gate. By this point, she was holding back the urge to vomit onto her own feet but when she saw the door of the lodge flung wide open and the gate ajar, she knew she was alone on the estate and emptied her stomach. There wasn't much to empty, but her stomach stopped hurting. When she stopped heaving, her ears picked up the crackling sound of the radio in the lodge. On rubbery legs, Claire walked into the lodge and turned the volume up. Hysterical voices crackled over the speakers on every channel she turned to.

"All gone!"

"Thousands missing!"

"Disappeared-"

Each voice said the same thing, essentially and Clarissa was left with an icy feeling which connected her to the rest of the world. Something had happened and now people were missing, disappeared…_gone_. She stood there for a long time, trying to wrap her head around the concept of thousands of people evaporating from their homes, their beds without anyone else noticing until now.

Chilled by a summertime breeze, Claire left the lodge after pressing many different buttons in an effort to close the front gate. The last thing she needed to worry about was uninvited guests in the wake of the U.K's newest chaos. With her last reserves of energy, she made her way back up the drive and into the manor. Though exhausted, Claire knew she would not be able to sleep so she turned on the television. What she had conceived as bound to a few islands north of France was pandemic. What channels were not complete static were reporting the exact same thing as the voices on the radio had. Save for the number of people, which was now hundreds of times larger. Millions of people vanished. Even the news stations reflected the chaos outside. One news anchor was actually crying, papers shaking in his hands. She muted the sound and leaned into the couch, letting the soft light of the television calm her to what extent it could. With the sound off, she simply imagined a totally new script for the awful play that was going on around her.

She imagined she was in the Hunger Games before it became Panem. She imagined herself as one of those ancestors of the Capitol, watching the uprising unfolding in her backyard and sitting in awe of the complete of the chaos. Funny thing, Claire actually managed to calm herself down in a delirium of mental authorship before a ringing somewhere in the house caught her attention. Someone was phoning but she couldn't figure out which room it was coming from. Her father, a cellular man, saw little need for land-line phones anymore but kept two or three in the manor just in case anything ever happened to the cell towers around the estate. Now they were ringing but Claire couldn't remember which room the closest phone was in. Cell phone glued to her hand, Claire never paid attention but followed the repetitive sound until she found one in her father's study.

"Hello?" Claire was shocked how child-like and small her voice sounded, but gave herself credit for remembering to talk at all.

"Claire?! Oh, thank God!" Matthew's voice was tight, distant from a poor connection.

"Matthew! Oh, Matthew…" Claire started crying all over again.

"Are you okay?!"

"Matthew," Claire blubbered, "They're gone! Everyone's gone! I'm here all alone!"

"Claire," Matthew's voice faded for a moment, "Claire, you've got to calm down. What do you mean everyone's gone?"

"Charlie, Rose, the patrol people, even the guy who watches the front gate…all gone!" she sucked in a breath and wiped her nose with the back of her wrist. Her fingers smeared away the tears on her cheeks.

"Okay…okay," she could tell he was trying to reason something out in his head. "Listen to me, Claire…things are absolutely ballistic here in London. Cars crashed all over the place and some git lodged his truck into one of the cell towers." His voice crackled again then came back into focus. "I'm going to try and get out to you, but I have no idea when that will be, okay?"

Claire sniffed, nodded though no one saw, "Okay. But what am I going to do? I-I can't stay here by myself!"

"You're going to have to, for a little while at least."

"But-"

"Listen!" Matthew paused, "You'll be fine, but just in case…Dad keeps a few of his old hunting rifles in the smoking room on the main floor."

Claire's body went very still as she followed her brother's logic. "Matthew, I don't know how to use those things. I don't even know how to get into the room! He keeps the room locked except for when the butler goes in there to clean."

"Calm down, look…There's a spare key to the room somewhere in the study," convenient for her though Matthew had no idea which phone she was on. "There may be a bunch of keys, so you might have to try a few out."

"Matthew, stop…I'll just wait for you to get here and then you can take care of it, okay?"

There was a long pause this time and Clarissa knew it wasn't because the reception on the phone was poor. Matthew was trying very hard to say something obvious without obviously saying it. Claire's innocuous denial was making that impossible for him.

"Claire. I want you to listen to what I am about to say, _very clearly_. Okay?"

Claire sat down on the couch, the leather making a squeaking noise. She became very still, "Okay."

"People are already taking advantage of this _disappearances_ thing. Some people, very bad people," he spoke to her like she was five years old, "Are looting people's homes. I don't think I need to explain to you what a prize our father's manor must be to those kind of people who live around there. So, what I am asking you to do is to find the key, get into that room and grab one of the guns from _inside_ the cabinet. Don't use one of the guns from off the wall because they aren't loaded…Do you understand me?"

"You want me to grab one of the guns from the cabinet," she repeated in fewer words, "because someone is going to try and break into the house."

"Yes," the tone of his voice confirmed that this was not a hypothetical situation at all.

"I can't shoot someone, Matthew…I don't even know how!" her heart began to race as her mind ticked away the seconds until this inevitable crisis came about.

"You aim and pull the trigger."

He was so painfully blunt that her brain sped up the count down, "And you're going to try your hardest to get here?"

"My absolute hardest. It's too dark right now to see the damage on the streets but if I have to, I'll hoof it on foot. I won't leave you there long but for all I know, they may quarantine us until the roads are clear. Regardless, you get that gun…you aim, and you pull the trigger."

* * *

Claire was amazed she had fallen asleep. Matthew had ended the conversation once a bang on his front door interrupted them. Too frightened to leave the room, Claire had spent another few hours scouring the study for the key Matthew mentioned. She had found many keys in random places but wouldn't know which key was which until she tried them all out. She took the keys with her to her room, since she always knew the quickest way to get out of there in case of danger. Another make-shift sheet rope to belay off the balcony with and she was a clear sprint from the trees.

Too tired to barricade herself in her room, she had settled for locking the door and mounting a chair underneath the knob. She made a pile out of the keys on her bedside table and checked her phone. She had missed several calls from Stewart, Matthew (which explained him calling the house), Todd-Cothran and Nicolae. Nicolae had been the very last to call her but her eyes were so heavy from crying and running and breaking down doors that all she had managed was a two word text message before curling up and falling asleep.

_Still here_.

When she woke up hours later, the house was altogether silent. The sunny day outside misled the mind into believing the night before had been nothing but a bad dream. The lackadaisical movement of the clouds belied the bedlam just beyond the estate boundaries. Resuming her Hunger Games narrative in her mind, Claire slid from the bed and went about business as though she were expected downstairs for breakfast. She showered and dressed before checking her messages. Not in the mood to talk to anyone for fear of capitulating into a sobbing mess, she sent Stewart and Todd-Cothran messages letting them know she was safe and sound. Nicolae hadn't sent her a message back, but she had no time to care about that when there was a cigar room to unlock and a gun to get. Pocketing the pile of keys, Claire traveled down to the kitchen to make something to eat.

Unaccomplished in the culinary arts, she managed a peanut butter and jam sandwich on toasted bread and a bowl of exceedingly sugary cereal. The clock on the oven let her know she had slept much less than she thought…maybe five hours. She would feel it later. For now, she crunched through her breakfast. She didn't bother cleaning the dishes since there was no one around to harp on her for it. That made her sad all over again, since Rosie had been such a stickler for tidiness.

Thirty minutes of post-breakfast business was trying out the variety of keys discovered in the study. Not a single one of them worked, resulting in another statuette breaking pieces of history off their hinges. Strategic kicks to the door broke it open, giving Charlie's a twin and Claire with half the stamina she earned. Sweating, Claire pushed into the room where her father usually brought prestigious guests for cigars and brandy after dinner. A time or two, Claire had sneaked into here with Avery for the stash of liquor. Now she was sneaking in for something much more lethal.

Without a key to the gun cabinet, Claire used the statuette for a final mission in smashing the glass casing. These weren't tiny guns. No, these weren't the side arms police officers or FBI agents carried in the shows she watched. These were hunting rifles used on large game, exotic game when her father had been in his prime and still interested in hunting animals more than the green lining of men's pockets. Careful of the glass, Claire reached into the cabinet and lifted on of the guns out. It was heavy in her hands, which were shaking as she thought more and more about whether or not she would be able to use it.

Matthew sounded sure that these guns were still loaded and she hoped his confidence proved accurate because she didn't know a thing about what kind of bullets the gun used, or even how to load them if she did know. Her noodle arms would make her a poor shot on top of all that. For now, though, her internal monologue changed her into Katniss Everdeen with a semi-automatic bow.

* * *

The hours crawled on with Claire having little to do but bounce her knees and flick through the channels, which reported nothing new. The initial chaos had died down to something more manageable, something akin to agitated confusion. News anchors weren't in hysterics, but unable to articulate anything beyond disbelief that millions around the globe could disappear without a shred of connection between any of them. Some were family, so there was connection there but the grander web of links was disjointed. More baffling, and painful, was that every single child was gone as well.

Claire heard horrific stories. Babes in the womb just gone! Women in the throws of labor suddenly screaming not from contractions, but from the sudden emptiness of their bodies. Entire nurseries were found empty and silent as the grave. Claire shuddered in her seat and checked her cell phone for any messages to change the subject in her own mind.

She had spoken with Stewart shortly after finding the gun, when she felt more secure about being in the home alone. He hadn't helped her feel better about the situation at all, though they were mutually satisfied to know one another were okay. This couldn't be said for Avery, which was why Stewart had called. He couldn't find her and assumed she had attempted to make her way to Claire's home or stayed with Claire the night of the disappearances. Dismayed, Claire was left to tell him that she hadn't seen Avery since the night they had painted their toe nails.

If that wasn't worrying enough, Avery wasn't answering the cell phone glued to the side of her face. Without a means to help him search, Claire could only sit and worry on her own. In the end, she had to suggest the most painful thing for him to do and that was to check the hospitals. Given Avery's penchant for nightlife combined with Matthew's apocalyptic description of the London byways, she could have gotten into a nasty accident and be stuck up in the ER somewhere now that they were beginning to clear the roads of cars… and victims. Swallowing the grim possibility, Stewart had agreed to call her if he found anything out. He had even volunteered to come get her so she _could _help, but Claire refused him since they both knew a missing Avery should be top priority.

Besides that, Claire hadn't heard from anyone else. She assumed her other siblings were alright, though there was no guarantee and Claire wasn't sure she would be gravely undone to learn they were gone. No call from her father, or follow-up call from Todd-Cothran, confirmed they were both still alive and the civility she forged with Jonathan had again been replaced by the icy understanding of distance. She assumed he was fine where he was in Manhattan, and also assumed he assumed she was fine from the brief words she'd texted to Todd-Cothran. Since neither was beside themselves in trying to qualify her condition, she was left waiting for further direction on whether to stay here or join her father in New York.

Her immediate direction, however, had less to do with overseas travel and more about how to operate the vast contraptions found in the kitchen. Claire could not live on peanut butter and jam alone. Without burning the house down, she managed to boil noodles and heat up sauce for spaghetti. Far from lavish, the meal served its purpose regardless of how sloppy soft the noodles were. She ate her meal in the soft glow of the television, a box office hit starring Tom Cruise's granddaughter replacing continuous loops of coverage about what no one could fix or explain.

Laying on the floor beside the couch was the loaded shot gun, whose company was slowly growing on Claire. She still didn't think she'd need, nor be able to, use it but the fact that she had it _did_ comfort her. She ignored the movie for a minute to stare at the shot gun and contemplate all the animals her father had hunted in his hay-day. Had it been easy for him…to point and shoot the way Matthew had told her to do? She rubbed her eyes and groaned as the five or fewer hours of sleep her acquired widdled away. She wanted to sleep but couldn't. Gun or no gun, she didn't feel that same sense of comfort anymore that enabled her to sleep obliviously.

* * *

She hadn't realized she nodded off until her phone buzzed in her lap and startled her awake. Her chest hurt from her heart thrashing and the screen was rushing with different images of the movie's fifth generation blu-ray menu. Pinching the bridge of her nose to concentrate, Claire answered the phone.

"Hullo?" she asked, her shuddering body slowly migrating back toward normality.

"Good to hear your voice somewhat unscathed," his voice was calm and cool. The calmest thing she had heard.

"Voices can be misleading," she exhaled and brushed red bangs from her eyes.

There was a pregnant pause. "Does that mean you're hurt?"

"What? Oh…no! I'm fine, for the most part, and probably far better than most."

"Who's there with you?" she could never tell how genuinely concerned Nicolae was, if concern was even a color on the spectrum of his personality.

It was Claire's turn to be silent. When she broke the silence, her voice was as soft and shaky as a toddler's. Her eyes were deadpan on the shot gun at her feet, "No one."

"What?! Where's your brother? Avery? The guards?!" his anger was misplaced, though he didn't know it.

"I-I don't…" all the stress and anxiety was coming to a fine point. Finding them gone, being alone, toting around a shotgun and jumping at every creak the old manor gave off…Claire heaved, "Matthew's stuck in London. Avery's missing and the guards…they're gone, _everyone's gone_!"

Jarred by her grief and stress, Claire couldn't hear what he was saying. She had begun to sob with one hand lazily covering her face while the other cradled the phone. Years of steadily building a wall to protect herself and convince herself solidarity was the safer bet were all for naught. Like Jericho, her fortifications came crashing down at her feet when faced with the cruel reality of loneliness. This calamity made her realize she had never been truly alone, regardless of what she always told herself. Someone had always been around. Someone had always loved her, even from a distance. Whether it be Charlie, Rosie or Sister Cecil…_someone_ had been there.

"Claire?! Calm down!" he shouted, perceptibly uncomfortable with her crying.

"I can't do it! I can't be here…I don't want to be alone!" she keened.

"Claire, listen to me," his tone was soft and soothing, but meant business, "Everything is going to be okay."

"You don't know that," Clarissa had stopped her wailing and now suckered in sobby breaths, her free hand wiping away messy tears.

"I have a pretty good idea you will be fine. I'm sure Matthew is on his way, Avery is safe and that your father is making arrangements for someone to man the house."

"I hope so," she sniffed and stared down at her metal partner, "because I don't like being so on edge."

"I know, these disappearances have shaken us all," he didn't sound shaken at all. He sounded confident, scripted in what he was telling her.

"That wasn't _quite _what I was referring to…" she reached down and gripped the long muzzle of the shotgun.

"Elaborate," a one word order.

"M-Matthew said I needed to be prepared for looters..."

"That is _ridiculous_," he pressed. "_Nothing _is going to happen to you."

"He said people were breaking into homes and apartments all over London!" her heart quickened.

"You _aren't in_ London. You are miles and miles away from city," she couldn't tell who he was irritated at more, Matthew for telling her such news or her for believing it.

"Yeah, in the giant manor house of a very rich man…You think people don't know that?!"

"_Clarissa!_ I _guarantee_ you that nothing will happen. Matthew should be reamed for putting those ideas in your head…"

"Well, I'm going to make sure it's not going to happen by following his advice," Claire vaguely defending her brother.

"…And what advice was that?" he seemed hesitant to pursue this digression.

Claire laid the shotgun across her lap, "To use one of the hunting shotguns to protect myself."

His voice was flat and calm, but there was a thin level of anxiety beneath it, "Clarissa, I need you to go wait near the front door. I am going to call someone to come get you."

"Matthew said-"

"Matthew told you to haul around a gun! He put ridiculous notions in your head about people robbing you and now you're scared to death! You're not staying there in a state of delirium about guarding yourself and home like a guerilla sniper!"

Claire was about to respond to his accusations with a shattering of glass somewhere in the house tore her from the conversation. Her stomach sank and she stood very slowly from the sofa. With the flick of her free hand, she snatched up the shot gun and began backing away from where she heard the sound emanate.

"Clarissa? Are you listening to me?"

"I have to go…"she whispered, frightened.

He picked up on the contextual change in a heartbeat. "What's going on? What's wrong?!"

"I'm not alone anymore…" and with that, she hung up the phone.


	9. Hit Me With Your Best Shot

A/N: Woot! Two chapters in almost a week! I like the way this story is progressing. Again, I only own my characters and not any rights to the original Left Behind series characters. Please R&R and enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 9: Hit Me with Your Best Shot

Epinephrine, also known as adrenaline, is a hormone and neurotransmitter responsible for regulating heart rate, blood vessels and the diameter of air passages. It is used to treat bodily catastrophes like cardiac arrest or anaphylaxis, and paired with norepinephrine, is a crucial component of the whole fight-or-flight response system, in which Clarissa was currently engaged.

Her body began to restrict itself. Blood vessels constricting to non-vital parts of her body and expanding for her muscles, eyes dilating to take in the minimized light in her surroundings and a painful acceleration of her heart and lungs. They burned, her lungs, from the harsh breaths she was taking and making a painstaking effort to keep quiet. A poor side effect of the whole fight or flight thing was the deadening of her hearing. Her sympathetic nervous system apparently assumed hearing was superfluous in this whole game of survival, though she found it quite essential when trying to track the movements of intruders.

Claire wasn't sure where she ought to go in the house, since she didn't want excessive movement on her part to give her position away. She also had no idea if there were others outside, so running for the tree line was about as safe as fighting the marauders head-on. Therefore, she found herself back in the study where she had grabbed the shotgun from. The cigar stench captured in the wood was made soothingly apparent the heavier Claire breathed once she was there. The shattered cabinet glass laid like twinkling, fallen stars on the floor since she had never bothered to clean up the mess. Careful for her barren feet, Claire eased herself toward a safe corner of the room and hunched down, propping the gun in such a way that she could defend herself if need be.

Then she sat. She sat and listened to the house around her. Luckily for her, her brain wasn't so panic-stricken that it forgot the basic layout of her home. She knew that the sound of breaking glass most likely came from bay windows of the kitchen, since it was one big burst and not many smaller ones as if they were trying to open the door. She hadn't listened for the movement of feet until now and she couldn't pick up on anything. At least the age of this house was on her side, no matter how big it may have been, because at some point a floor board would give off a creak or moan.

Until then, all she could do was clutch the gun and wait for the trespassers to expose themselves. She assumed there was more than one and since there had been no sound of someone interrupting her and Nicolae's phone call, she doubted it was Matthew. He wouldn't break glass to get into his partial home, either. Right now, she hoped and prayed they just took whatever they wanted and left.

Just as her stomach began to settled, Claire heard distinct creaking and thudding against the wood of _someone_ moving in her direction. They were coming down the hallway and would soon enough tread along the carpet, muting their steps and her ability to follow their direction. Her heart hammered against her rib cage when she could hear them no longer and tightened her body into a smaller position. Her palms felt sweaty and she had to release the gun so she could wipe them against her shirt.

She took up the gun again when she heard movement again. This time, it was coming from right outside the door. It reminded her of someone shifting their weight. Her body froze when whoever was on the other side began to open the door. It wasn't a slow, tentative procedure. They twisted the knob, then shoved the door open and stepped into the room.

A combination of darkness and unfamiliar terrain had the stranger fumbling for a light switch. There was little illumination spilling from the hallway to help them, but their fingers eventually found the target. Unfortunately for them, their eyes adjusted to the snout of a hunting rifle.

* * *

The man was dressed like no burglar she had ever known, not that she had known many burglars but the fact remained that his dark, heavy garb befitted a militaristic assassin more than an opportunistic thug. His attire of camo pants tucked into black combat boots and a long-sleeve black shirt draped with what could only be a Kevlar vest reminded her of actors from the bygone era of crime scene investigation shows riddled with random FBI agents. Claire gathered the impression of the balaclava covering his face, though, that this man was not here for benevolent reasons. He wasn't stupid, though, because he hadn't moved a muscle since laying eyes on the gun pointed directly at him.

"Get out of my house!" Claire snarled.

"Now, now, now…let's just calm down here," his deep voice was muffled by the material over his mouth.

"I said _get out of my house_!" Claire poised her finger over the trigger and the man stiffened, nearly flinching a step backwards.

"You don't wanna use that thing, poppet," he patronized though Claire could tell he was nervous and searching.

"Obviously I _do _if I've gone so far as to shove it at your face," she corrected him and tilted the nozzle up toward his head.

His hands shot up, palms facing her. "What I meant to say is I think we both know you won't actually use it, love."

"How much you going to bet on that assumption?"

He apparently wasn't betting much because he watched her steadily for a few seconds, lowered his hands and began to back up toward the door. Claire didn't take her eyes off of him and wouldn't until he was out of the room. Regrettably, the man didn't leave the room. Once he was close enough to the doorway once more, he extended on arm and cut off the lights. Not stupid by any means, Claire knew what he was doing with his other hand and launched her body to the side as soon as she heard him draw something from his person. Three shots rang out in the room, cracking like thunder and Claire screamed as her body thudded against a leather sofa chair.

She couldn't give the man another opportunity to use his gun. The rifle was abandoned somewhere on the floor behind her as she gripped the arms of the chair, crouched slightly and ran it toward where she guessed the man stood. She heard another two shots bang and rip through the top of the chair. Her face burned above her left brow, dangerously close to her eye. Shortly after, she could feel warmth running down that side of her face.

The man has miscalculated what was happening, since he had assumed switching off the lights would be to his benefit, not hers. He had planned on her being shot the first time around, not on being body-slammed by a rich man's lounge chair. The impact was immediate, but clumsy as the man fell back on his behind and dropped his gun, sending a final shot ricocheting somewhere behind him to shatter something else expensive. The man cursed soundly and scrambled, but Claire succeeded in grabbing one of his ankles and pulling with all her might. He kicked at her, knocking her shoulder and stomach. She released him as soon as she felt a sharp sting on the bottom of her foot. The reserves of adrenaline had kept her from feeling pain from the kicks, for right now, but her feet were fair game for pain.

It took her less than a second to piece together opportunity, as she crouched down and slid her fingers around until she found a good-sized piece of the cabinet glass. The man hadn't gotten far and was still fumbling to get out from beneath the lounge chair. She could hear him wrestling the weight of the chair to one side and topple it off of him. Taking advantage of the very small window of time, Claire darted for where she could make out his shape and brought the piece of glass down onto whatever soft piece of flesh she could make contact with.

He howled so loudly, Claire stumbled back from the fear of it and turned toward where she thought the rifle may be. She didn't know where she had struck him, only that he was pissed now as he let loose a fine stream of cussing. Chair gone, the man scrambled after her and grabbed her ankle and sent her crashing into the floor, hand outstretched and scraping for the rifle. Just as he flipped her body over, her fingers traced the butt of the gun and she grabbed it without a single hesitation.

"I'm going to kill you, you stupid little bitch!" one hand was gripping her thigh now, trying to drag her. She assumed, since he hadn't grabbed her with the other that she had damaged his arm. Regardless of whether the arm was injured or poising a weapon, Claire drew her unmolested leg toward her chest and kicked him square on some part of his body.

It was enough to at least stun him because she felt him release her leg. Free, Claire scooted her body back in one motion and drew the rifle into position in another. Fully adjusted to the darkness now, her eyes saw him adjust himself and the piece of bloody glass he held as a weapon then dive for her. What happened after that would forever imprint itself on her mind.

* * *

She shut her eyes tight, gripped the gun and pulled the trigger. The recoil of the gun slammed her upper body back against the floor of the room and left a painful snap in her shoulder. She felt something collapse onto her body, a warm puddle gathering over her lap. Shaking uncontrollably, Claire waited for the man to move but he never did. She counted to one-hundred in her head but he still hadn't moved and it only occurred to her, when he had stopped concentrating on which number came after which, that he man was not breathing.

With hands of Jell-O, Claire shoved the dead man off of her. She sat up centimeter at a time, making herself breathe and trying to ignore the warm, wet weight settled in her lap. There was no way she was going to move what was there, so she forced herself to stand up and shuddered as whatever it was felt onto her feet with a slippery, squelchy sound. The kicked it off her feet nervously and reached for the rifle. She barely had time to think about what she had done when the lights came flying on.

"Wesley, you slow son of a-" she heard.

She blinked and centered her gaze on the second man standing in the doorway. His face was unmasked and horrified at the sight he beheld. Mutual shock had Clarissa and the man paused. The stink of blood and gun powder fuzzied her brain to a single goal: survival. In a race against time, both girl and man drew their respective weapons. A single explosion cut the silence between them and sent hunting slug and flesh peppering the wall behind the man.

He screamed and flailed around, one hand gripping where his shoulder once was. It was still _mostly _there, though a good chunk of it now mingled with the wall paper. Claire didn't know what to do from here since the rifle only had two shots and she didn't know how to load more ammo into it. Once the man had regained whatever killing drive he once had, there was no gun for him to use anymore. Flung somewhere throughout the room when Claire shot him, his dazed brain could only force him to reach for one of the guns mounted on the wall while Claire tugged a second, smaller rifle from the cabinet behind her.

Turning back toward the man, she saw the muzzle pointing toward her. Time slowed to a deafening crawl as she fought to figure where he had gotten that rifle. Trailing her eyes to the wall, she saw the empty rack and gripped the barrel in her hand. Blood ran down the man's arm in rivers and his eyes were filled with animalistic bloodlust.

"S'not worth it…" he muttered, "I'm gunna splatter your pretty little face all over that wall." He took a step toward her, but she was frozen where she stood. She hoped to God that Matthew was right about the guns on the wall, or else she had lived a very short life on this Earth. Her breath caught in her chest, her eyes tightened shut and her face turned to the side as the man pulled the trigger.

But nothing happened. There was a pathetic, hopeless clicking sound but nothing more. No burst of gunpowder, no release of ammunition, no light at the end of the tunnel…nothing. Claire opened her eyes and looked at the man, who simply stared at the gun and pulled the trigger a few more times while yowling with fury. Unconcerned and unsympathetic, Claire raised the rifle from the cabinet, closed one eye to center the muzzle and pulled the trigger.

The recoil was smaller, but her body was so hopped up on hormones that her shoulder couldn't feel a thing. She couldn't feel anything as she watched the man's very dead, now faceless body plummet to the hardwood floor. Even the fountain of blood spilling from his body and pooling on the Malaccan cherry wasn't jarring her. Something had snapped off in her conscious to the point where she simply bent to set the gun down and walked for the door of the room. She stepped into the warm puddle and paused, a buzzing sound breaking through her drone-like state.

Stooping close to the body, she saw a side pocket of his camo pants glowing and buzzing. Her red, stained fingers pried open the pocket and pulled out the phone. The caller I.D. was cryptically vague: Boss. Standing, Claire slid her thumb over the surface of the phone and put it to her ear. She led a trail of bloody footprints out of the room, somehow sure these two men had been the only ones.

"Hello?" she asked into the phone.

The caller immediately hung up.

* * *

Claire had little time to contemplate the significance of someone hanging up so suddenly. She could see flashings of blue streaking the wall like ghosts and a whirring noise of distress coming from the front of the manor. Sliding the phone into her pocket for future investigation, she made her way to the front door as soon as the pounding began. She heard someone shouting, language distinguishing itself the further from the carnage she moved.

"Miss Stonagal?! Miss Stonagal, open the door!" a man's voice. The spiraling blue indicated that this was the police and she imagined, since she hadn't heard anything prior to the second man coming in that they had just arrived.

The grandfather clock outside the foyer chimed and her brows drew together. The whole ordeal had only taken fifteen minutes. Seemed like hours to her since she had left Nicolae with such a cryptic departing note. That would explain the police, though since no one else knew enough to call them.

Clarissa reached the door and gripped the handle as she listened to the voices on the other side, "Break down the door if you have to, boy!" a gruffer old man snapped at someone. Taking a deep breath, Claire did them a favor and opened the door right before the "boy" had a chance to kick it in. There had been enough drama for one lifetime without adding the over-the-top cinematic heroism of kicking in the front door. The young man staggered back and everything went quiet for a moment as the rescue squad outside stared wide-eyed.

"M-Miss Stonagal? Miss…Clarissa Stonagal?" a woman's voice piped up from somewhere behind the glare of headlights and cerulean flashes.

Claire, still too numb to care why they were dumbstruck, lifted a hand to block out the gleaming and get a better sense of how numerous her audience was. There were two police panda cars and one ambulance. _Someone _certainly had some clout in this town. Finally, she nodded toward the woman she assumed asked for her name.

"A-are you alright?" the closest police officer stepped toward her. Claire took a step back from his outstretched hand.

"I…" Claire's brain whirred. A cacophony barraged her brain with compositions of gun shot explosions and screaming. Had it really only be a quarter hour since this all started?

Someone touched her shoulder and Claire snapped to, shoving their hand away from her. "Miss, are you hurt?"

The constant flashing was making Claire ill. The adrenaline was leaving her body and leaving her wobbly and nauseated. It was like coming off an exhilarating high only to crash into the ground instead of landing gently on your feet. Holding her head, she sucked her breath and winced. Her fingers grazed the cut the bullet left. Claire tilted her body, felt the policeman's hands support her as she puked all over his shoes.

* * *

Hissing, Claire snapped her head away from the alcohol-soaked cotton swab the paramedic was using to clean her wound. She sat in the back of the ambulance, refusing to lay down at the risk of falling asleep. The female paramedic was trying her best to be gentle with her, but Claire could tell she wanted to hurry up and finish so she could leave.

They had asked her again, after she finished vomiting, whether or not she was hurt. Much more conscious of her surrounds and situation, Clarissa had told them her shoulder hurt like hell and her face stung, but that was all. For a long moment, everyone just stared at her and it was only then that Claire bothered to look down at her attire and assess the damage done by the ordeal inside. She was soaked in blood…someone _else's _blood.

"This isn't mine…" she had whispered, bottom lip trembling. The same young man who had first banged on the door tried to ask her more, but was shut-up by a senior officer who allowed the paramedics to take Claire to the ambulance for assessment.

Once the cut on her face was cleaned and bandaged, attention turned to her shoulder. They had Claire move her arm and when she cried out in paid, they did basic tests for breaks. Claire bit her lip as fiery bursts of pain erupted all around her shoulder blade and deltoids. The paramedic told her they couldn't say for sure whether anything was broken without an X-ray. Clarissa loathed hospitals and certainly didn't want to go there now, not with the Chainsaw Massacre themed appearance she sported.

What they could do now was give her painkillers, but not until the police were done with her. Then it would be shower, change of clothes, painkillers and off to the hospital. Or, at least she sorely hoped things would go in that order. The man's blood was dried on her skin and tacky on her clothes. Death was literally _clinging _to her and she had to wait. The police had marched into the manor as soon as she took her first step toward the ambulance. Now, she waited for one or all of them to march right back out. Part of her began to fear they would arrest her.

The breathed some sort of sigh of relief when two officers exited the home and made their way toward her. Old fashioned style, one of them flipped open a pocket-sized notepad and stood ready to write. His partner, pale and sick-looking, opened his mouth to begin his questioning then suddenly took a deep breath and shook his head. She knew he was trying to get the image out of his mind. She also knew it would be in his a lot longer than hers, because her frenzied state had eliminated all but the most important parts, the parts required to save her life. She would never forget the men standing in the room, the aiming of guns and the sounds of shooting but she was thankful she was too mentally catatonic after the second man for the resulting scene to imprint on her brain.

"Clarissa, I know you're very shook up and frightened right now, but you're going to have to tell us what happened here. I promise you won't be in trouble, but we _really _need to know," his face gained back some color.

Clarissa nodded and told them the whole story.

* * *

Matthew Stonagal had heard a lot of things, done a lot of things and _seen _a lot of things. Lots of things, both good and bad and in lots of different places. In the thirty-six year he had been on this planet, he had been to the running of the bulls twenty times, watched and participated in countless bar brawls and even witnessed a man so hopped up on drugs that he lit himself on fire. Somehow, though, all those things paled in comparison to the scene of gore played out in his father's cigar…company room.

He had arrived at the manor about fifteen minutes after the police, or about half an hour after everything had happened according to one of the officers. Claire was still sitting at the back of the ambulance when he pulled up the drive. Her stomach lurched when he saw her splattered in red. She had met his eyes for only a second before looking at her feet like some guilt-induced child. After throwing his father's name around, the responding officers let him into the home. They took him to where the first man, according to Claire's story, had broken into the house. He had used a rock to break one of the window frames in the servant quarter's hall. This matched up with what they had both heard from Nicolae Carpathia…that Claire had heard someone breaking in and cut off the phone conversation.

Hesitantly, they took Matthew toward the cigar room. To preserve the scene, as if this were going to result in a full investigation, the police officers took Matthew a different route than Claire or the men took and made him stand back so he could only partially see into the room. Partially was more than enough since blood splattered the wall behind the doorway. Matthew felt something rise in his throat as he made out distinct pieces of flesh and bone against the wall. Bloody footprints crept out of the room, which everyone knew to be Claire's as she headed for the door.

"She's naturally shaken and needs to go to the hospital," one officer told him as they walked back to the front.

"Of course…I mean, how bad is it?" Matthew stared at the floor in front of each step.

"Paramedic said the cut on her face would heal without a lasting scar, but they won't know the damage to her shoulder area until they get her to the hospital. Could be a sprain…could be broken, they just can't tell from here."

"Right…right," Matthew stopped in the parlor outside the foyer, pinched the bridge of his nose and squeeze his eyes shut.

"I know this is _a lot _to take in, but at least she's safe. An injured shoulder's a small price to pay for what she went through tonight…for what _could have _happened," the officer patted Matthew on the back in a fatherly gesture of comfort.

"I should have told her to run…I'm such an idiot!"

"Whadya mean?" the man's brow was crooked when Matthew opened his eyes.

"_I'm _the one who told her to get the bloody gun! I just-" Matthew quaked, "I thought that would keep her safe, having something to protect her."

"It _did _keep her safe, Mr. Stonagal…You're sister is safe."

"But she went through hell! I thought if someone saw her with one of those guns, they would run right out the way they came…I never expected them to stick around and fight back!" Matthew slumped into a parlor chair, his shoulders feeling heavy. He put his head in his hands and felt the pressure of his elbows against his knees.

He heard the officer scoot a chair closer to his own, "Listen, Mr. Stonagal…Given what's been happening around London, there's no wonder you would tell her to grab a gun. Times are different, and they got different real quick," Matthew lifted his head to listened to his wizened police officer. "Neither you nor she could have known they were going to shoot back at her and given the fact that she didn't have a pence worth of knowledge about the gun she held, I'd say you told her the right thing to save her life. So, don't be puttin' yourself down for what no one can fix right now…just be glad she's here at all and that's all thanks to what you told her."

Matthew nodded and heaved himself up from the chair. He left the parlor with the officer in toe but stopped short of colliding with Claire as she entered the foyer. Her gaze was distant, almost robotic and another jab struck Matthew's resolve. She was riddled with the crimson of her assailants but had the torpid facial expression of a fish. Matthew clumsily brushed hair away from her face, pushing it behind her ear as they stared at each other.

"Hey. How you holding up, poppet?" he said real soft.

"They said I could take a shower now."

"Right. Well," he looked back at the officer, who nodded and took his leave. He looked back at Claire. He saw exhaustion behind the listless countenance. "Let's get you upstairs, then."

* * *

Clothes in a stained aggregation on the bathroom floor, Claire sat beneath the spray of hot water. The white granite was decorated with many red rivulets as the shower washed away the carnage of the night. Claire rested her chin against her knees and just stared ahead as she tried to make sense of things so far. Neither of the men had a thing on them; so contrary to the robbers Matthew proselytized of.

Claire's shoulder throbbed, begging for appropriate attention and awakening her to the drastically different temperature of the water. By the time she stopped her contemplation and came back to reality, the shower head was spitting cold water and her body was unconsciously shaking. She didn't want to get up though. She felt so tired…so scared…so guilty. Her cheeks warmed in odd places as liquid lachryma slid down her skin. Shoulder protesting, Claire buried her face into her knees and cried.


End file.
